^THE^GEOMB 
CENTENNIAL 

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COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 



ALMA MATER 

or THE GEORGETOWN 
CENTENNIAL 

AND OTHER DRAMAS 



ALMA MATER 

orTHE GEORGETOWN 
CENTENNIAL 

AND OTHER DRAMAS 




By M. S. EttlE fc 

7\ 



^ty&tyi/aujfa*.^ ^^ 




Published for 

Georgetown Visitation Convent 

Washington, D. C. 

1913 






Copyright, 1913 

Munder-Thomsen Company 

AH rights reserved 



Printed by 
Munder-Thomsen Press 
Baltimore New York 



©CI.A34685 



Dedicated 
With Affectionate Memories to the 

Alumnae 

of the 

Convent of the Visitation 
Georgetown, D. C. 



Foreword 



THESE unpretentious little Dramas were written 
for "occasions," almost, I might say, on the 
spur of the moment. Alma Mater grew out 
of the solemn commemoration of the Centenary of the 
Georgetown Convent of the Visitation, a function held 
in May, 1899. Hermine came into being to celebrate 
the Second Centenary of Blessed Margaret Mary, the 
seraphic nun of the Visitation to whom Jesus Christ re- 
vealed His Sacred Heart. Hearts of Gold — True 
and Tried was composed at the request of certain 
young Convent Seniors who wished to honor George 
Washington's Birthday with a histrionic performance. 
The Church's Triumph was prepared for an Eccles- 
iastical Reception, His Eminence Cardinal Gibbons and 
His Excellency, the Apostolic Delegate, being present. 
The Angels' Feast commemorated the Golden Jubilee 
of a saintly Visitation Nun, and was performed within 
the precincts of the Cloister. The Star of Bethlehem 
tells its own story as a preparation for the beautiful Feast 
of the Epiphany. The Angels' Meeting made a 
portion of the programme of the first Maryland Day, 
proclaimed by His Eminence Cardinal Gibbons. A 
Georgetown Reunion and What Came of It formed 
a part of an entertainment given to His Excellency, the 
present Apostolic Delegate. 



As St. Francis de Sales in giving to the world his sub- 
lime " Treatise on the Love of God" did not disdain to 
say, after having charitably remonstrated with his critics : 
" Therefore, my dear reader, I conjure you to be gra- 
cious and good to me in reading this Treatise/' so I 
too may ask for indulgence, considering the morsels of 
leisure which have been pressed into literary service amid 
many academic duties, in order to give an evening's 
entertainment to young and gentle hearts. 

Go, little book, and speak thy word 
Of comfort, love — of truth and hope; 

Blessed if thou by one be heard 

And help one climber o'er life's slope. 

M. S. PINE 
May, 1913 (S. M. P.) 




Contents 



* * * 



Alma Mater or The Georgetown 
Centennial : a Drama inThree Acts 11 

Hermine: a Drama in Three Acts 61 

Hearts of Gold, True and Tried : 
a Colonial Drama in Five Acts . . 123 

The Church's Triumph .... 173 

The Angels' Feast 197 

The Star of Bethlehem .... 211 

The Angels' Meeting or Terra 
Mariae 221 

A Georgetown Reunion and What 
Came of It 229 



ALMA MATER 

or THE GEORGETOWN 

CENTENNIAL 



A Drama in Three Acts. 
Allegorical Characters. 



Alma Mater. 


Ignorance. 


Church. 




Folly. 


Faith. 




Vanity. 


Hope. 




Prejudice. 


Charity. 




Envy. 


Chastity. 




Calumny. 


Prayer. 




Persecution. 


Humility. 




Fear. 


Learning. 




Temptation. 


Song. 


Ange 


Discouragement. 
1 of Justice. 


Liberty. 


Other States. 


Unity. 




Visitation Houses. 


District of Columbia. 


Eight little children. 


Maryland. 




Four Generations: 


Virginia. 




Great-grandmother 


Massachusetts. 




Grandmother, 


New York. 




Mother, 


Pennsylvania. 




Child. 


California. 




Senior Pupil. 



ALMA MATER 

or THE GEORGETOWN 

CENTENNIAL 



Act I: 1799. 

Liberty is discovered alone. Enter Thir- 
teen Original States with District of Colum- 
bia. Enter Unity leading Kentucky, Ver- 
mont and Tennessee {admitted into the 
Union before the foundation of the Convent 
in 1799). Enter Right, Alma Mater with 
train of Virtues; Liberty and States welcome 
her with song. Enter little children. Enter 
Church, who blesses the mission of Alma 
Mater. 

Act II. 

Council of Vices. Ignorance discovered 
alone. Enter Folly, Vanity and others: they 
conspire against Alma Mater, who approaches 
from right, accompanied by Fear, Temptation 
and Discouragement. She refuses to give up 
her project of founding the Visitation, and 
the Vices unite in persecuting her. Enter 
Angel of Justice, who disperses them. Enter 
Church and Virtues. Magnificat. 



Act III: 1899. 

Alma Mater is discovered on throne. En- 
ter Liberty and Columbia, who greet her on 
the occasion of her Centenary. The Houses 
of the Visitation, accompanied by their re- 
spective States, appear bearing offerings to 
Alma Mater. Four generations present con- 
gratulations in the name of the Alumnae and 
Pupils. Enter Church, who crowns Alma 
Mater. Coronation Chorus. 






•f 1 i 



Act I. 

Scene. — A beautiful grove. Liberty is dis- 
covered. 

Liberty. I am the daughter of God, Liberty ! 
Freedom is birthright of mankind, all holy 
When childlike His high counsels it obeys, 
More free, more beautiful, more glad, because 
His gladness, beauty infinite it shares. 
This land, His garden, He hath given to me. 
At His feet I have waited, gazing down 
While ages rolled, and earth's foundations heaved 
Majestic mountains, and the snow- fed springs 
Rushed down and formed my noble river streams. 
I've watched the generations come and go 
And lay them down 'neath their stupendous 

mounds : 
I've watched the human sacrifices hung 
Around the pillars of false temples ; here 
The tomahawk hath ruled ; and then Oppression 
Followed the feet of homeless wanderers 
Seeking a refuge from the knife and fire. 
God's eye looked down, and oft His angels came 
To nerve these free-born men to valor. Aye, 
And women in the dead of night heard voices 
Bidding them urge their sons and husbands on 
Through heart-blood, through their own souls' 

woe, to win 
The gift next to God's own dear love and faith — 
Gift of His own right hand to noble men 
And valiant women, Liberty! They heard: 
And lo! the "Women of the Revolution" 
Stand on the broadest pedestal of fame, 



16 Alma Mater or the 

Honored of God and men as Judith was, 

Or that great mother of the Machabees, 

Albeit she for God's law bade them die — 

They for God's children and their unborn heirs, 

Crushed, broken 'neath the iron heel of Wrong, 

To generations in the far-off time 

Gave blood and pain and anguish : — such high cost 

Must buy all precious things for fallen man. 

Enter from right and left, keeping time to Minuet, the 
Thirteen Original States — Maryland, Virginia, 
Massachusetts, New Hampshire, Rhode Island, 
Connecticut, New York, New Jersey, Pennsylva- 
nia, Delaware, North Carolina, South Carolina, 
Georgia — the right led by the District of Colum- 
bia. All congee to Liberty, seated on a rustic 
throne in center. 

Liberty. Daughters of peace, so varied in your beauty, 
E pluribus unum, this shall be your motto ; 
For one and many ye shall truly be — 
A glorious sisterhood in love compact 
While cycling Time's triumphal car shall drive 
O'er prostrate thrones and bleeding nations' dust. 

Maryland. O Liberty, our mother, be our guide! 
Fair Unity hath twined our hearts in one 
And still attends us as an angel ; lo ! 
Where now she hastes adown the mountain side 
With three new Sisters in her pure embrace. 

Enter Unity, right, with Kentucky, Vermont and Ten- 
nessee: all congee to Liberty. 

Liberty. Welcome, fair Daughters, to our brave Thir- 
teen! 



Georgetown Centennial 17 

Forever joined let nothing sever ye 
From Unity, the angel of your land ; 
Witnessed and ratified by her, each act 
Shall call a blessing from the bending Heavens, 
And never cloud shall dark the clear horizon 
O'er which I gaze today. 'Tis near the birth 
Of a new century : the bell hath tolled 
For ninety-nine; and while with prophet-eyes 
I see a Sorrow winging fast his flight, 
And a white Death behind him, who shall smite 
Your glorious chief and lay in mourning low 
His new-born nation, [All shudder and express 
emotion by look and gesture^ yet I feel a 
thrill 
As of a heavenly portent near. 

Maryland. Methinks 

The robe of prophecy is on me. Lo ! 

Far off I see a maiden dreamlike veiled 

Approaching in a shower of roses, led 

By June, the fairest of the summer nymphs : 

And o'er her seems to hover that same train 

Of visitants celestial, chanting low, 

I saw in years gone by above the prow 

Of my dear Ark and Dove, that came to bring 

Unnumbered blessings to my waiting shores. 

Liberty. Lord Baltimore ! He knew me in the light 
Of God and prayer, and brought the dawn ere yet 
My sun arose within the circling heavens. 

Maryland. He brought the Cross, the Church of ages, 
to me: 
And now a fair Cathedral sends its shaft, 



1 8 Alma Mater or the 

The sacred symbol, toward the summer skies ; 
And thou, Columbia, hast received its mission. 

Columbia. Yea, 'mong my hills with flowers and foli- 
age crowned, 
And watered by Potomac's sun-touched stream, 
Your Carroll hath his hall of learning reared, 
Where Truth and Virtue point our sons the way 
To honor bright, and true nobility. 

Virginia. And George's Town another yet shall boast. 
The prophet's mantle on my shoulder falls: — 
This crowned Spouse, the daughter of the King, 
Shall here abide. O after her shall run 
Young maidens to the odor of her ointments ; 
And to my Mountains Blue and Alleghanies 
They shall in the clear future bear the grace 
And beauty of the Hand divine that formed her. 

Pennsylvania. And shall not we thy glory share, my 
Sister ? 

Virginia. I may not tell : the vision is for me. 

Maryland. Her virgin flock shall feed among my pas- 
tures, 
Near running waters of my Chesapeake: — 
Amid my mountains, scenes of fairy beauty 
I hold for these dear followers of the Lamb. 

Liberty. But thou, Columbia, thou shalt see her first. 
Embrace her, guard her, shelter her from harm, 
For she shall be a beacon light to thee. 
Our children's children in the century's wane 
Shall still be taught of her, when this broad land 
Shall lie beneath my golden sceptre. 

[Harp music heard in the distance.] 



Georgetown Centennial 19 

Columbia. [Right.] List ! 

There is a sound of far-off music. 
All stand in attitudes of expectancy. Alma Mater, 
robed in white, with golden scarf and veiled, a lily 
in her hand, appears, followed by a train of 
maidens, — Faith, Hope, Charity, Prayer, Chastity, 
Humility, Learning and Song. 

Lo! 
The herald of our joy, the expected one! 
Liberty. [Boiving and extending sceptre.] All hail, O 
Virgin Spouse of Him who bore 
The Cross! Thrice welcome to our wooded 
shores ! 
Columbia. [Embracing her.] Upon my soil thy hal- 
lowed foot doth rest, 
Each step a benediction to my people, 
Whose greetings shall be echoed o'er the land. 
States in semi-circle to left; Liberty, Alma Mater, Co- 
lumbia in center; Virtues to right. 
Alma Mater. I come from o'er the sea, where white- 
winged Faith 
My steps hath guided long, oft whispering dreams 
Of regions beautiful, where Liberty 
Should share her golden sceptre with me. Here 
This vision of all beauty I descry : 
Hands stretched in welcome; but [Looking 
around half mournfully.] one voice I long for 
Whose word shall seal my mission evermore. 
A form clad in Bishop's robes steps out from back- 
ground. Maryland advances reverently and waves 
the banner of the Church, while Columbia raises 



20 Alma Mater or the 

the Stars and Stripes so that the two flags meet 
above his head. Alma Mater clasps her hands in 
joy and kneels at his feet. 

Church. Welcome, my daughter, from thy land afar! 
The triumph of God's kingdpm was unrolled 
To me in visions of the night, and there 
Wonders I may not utter were revealed. 
God's seraphim sped on their wings of light 
From the great lakes where Jogues and Marquette 

died 
To Mexic Gulf, and then from sea to sea, 
Their anthems filling all the universe. 
"This is the kingdom of our God on earth," 
They sang; "let incense rise from every vale 
And plain and hill — the Lamb's great sacrifice." 
And then I saw a train of Virgins led 
By one whose holy features thou dost bear, 
Who scattered seeds that sprang to flower and 

fruit, 
The while a white-plumed angel by a fount 
Poured life-refreshing waters all around, 
And ever and anon, in voice more sweet 
Than harpers, harping on their harps celestial, 
He chanted clear : "Pax super Israel!" 1 

Alma Mater. And I, unworthy one, have been fore- 
shown 
To thee, O light and guardian of my life? 

Church. Yea, for thou hast a glorious mission here: 
Behold how Liberty hath clasped thy hand ; 
And her fair Daughters wait with Unity, 
Wrapped in their Stars and Stripes — alas! dear- 



Georgetown Centennial 21 

bought — 

To do thee homage ; wait with smile and song 

Upon their lips. 
Liberty. [Solo.] Lovely maiden, hail, all hail! 

Purity pearls thy brow, 

Gleams in the lily within thy hand, 

In thy vesture and veil of snow. 

Beautiful, beautiful is thy train, 

Bringing back Heaven to earth again; 

Here shall thy home thro' the ages be — 

Liberty's Daughters sing welcome to thee, 

[Chorus.] Sing welcome to thee, 
Sing welcome to thee, 

Liberty's Daughters sing welcome to thee ! 
Liberty. [Solo.] Floating o'er thy White and Gold, 

Symbol of joy to be, 

Hold we the sheltering Stars and Stripes, 

Our beautiful Flag of the Free. 

Fashion our daughters to lofty things, 

Beauty must wither and gold hath wings ; 

Higher the model in Heaven is thine, 

Mary, the Queen of the New World's shrine. 

[Chorus.] The New World's shrine, 
The New World's shrine, 

Mary, the Queen of the New World's shrine. 
[The first verse is repeated as a chorus, during which 

six little children, led by an elder one, enter left, 

keeping time to music; they remain near the 

States.] 
Alma Mater. I thank ye for this trancing melody 

Of welcome, breathing soul in every note: 



22 Alma Mater or the 

Words fail before it, but the heart grows rich 
In love and high resolve to meet your wishes. 
The virgin soil I tread shall spring with flowers 
Of God's sweet grace, and ye shall bless the day 
Ye oped your arms unto His wanderer. 
There is a glory far above all else 
On earth, above the luminous worlds on high, — 
The human soul, the image of God's glory; 

[The children listen fascinated, and one by 
one move to right, mingling with the 
Virtues.] 
The azure sky's broad tent was spread for it — 
These sylvan pillared halls for its brief tread, 
Nature at hand to lavish all her treasures 
Of beauty and of use for its sweet tendance. 
But in the service of its great Creator 
It finds true joy, its widest liberty, — 
Nor earth, nor Heaven hath gladness without 

Him. 

Charity. [Advances bearing Heart in right hand, her 
left around a little child. ,] Love is the soul of 
service — its reward 
The joy unchanging which is perfect peace. 
The budding love of these sweet innocents 

[Looks toward Alma Mater.] 
She shall entwine around the Sacred Heart 
Of Him who bade the little children come 
And cluster at His feet ; or on His knees, 
With wise eyes listening to His easy lessons ; 
Or oft, their dimpled arms about His neck, 



Georgetown Centennial 23 

He smiled the while they smothered Him with 

kisses. 
And this new love shall ope new faculties, 
Shall rule the little world of human loves, 
Shall be a rod to Passion and to Folly. 
Maryland. We welcome thee and thy fair followers 
As earth doth welcome Spring, with all her train 
Of soft-hued flowers and warbling birds and 
Zephyrs. 

[One of the children, slowly emerging from 
background, gazes upon the lily in Alma 
Mater s hand, and, approaching her, smells 

it.] 

See ! from our sides our little ones have gone, 
And there entangled 'mid your soft caresses 
Have found new spirit-mothers, and are bound 
To ye already with a hoop of gold. 

Massachusetts. I fear me — for that lily beautiful 
Is passing sweet of fragrance ; lo ! my child 
Is captured by its golden-hearted perfume. 

Chastity. [Crowned with lilies and bearing one.] Nay, 
fear ye not, my Sister ; 'tis a gift 
A queen might envy and an empress share. 
I am the lily-bearer from Heaven's garden ; 
None but the chosen few receive it, they 
Who follow evermore the Lamb with songs 
And win the name He knows, above all price. 

Columbia. [Approaching Alma Mater.] I feel its 
heavenly odor : many daughters 
Shall fly from me to nestle 'neath your wing. 

Virginia. And many of my noblest hearts shall bear 



24 Alma Mater or the 

That lily's sweetness to the world. 
Pennsylvania. And I — 

My maidens pure shall hear the silver chime 
Of lily-bells struck by no mortal fingers, 
And haste to crown them with the snowy music. 
New York. Yea, from the Pine to Palm our groves 
shall yield 
A crop of virgin lilies ; we the richer 
For their full life and unblenched majesty — 
O'er Solomon in all his glory clad. 
First Child. [Looking upon the Virtues.] And these 
shall be our teachers? O what joy! 

[Clapping hands.] 
I never, never shall be naughty. 
Second Child. [Bearing books.] No, 

Nor I ; I shall not pout, nor throw my books 
Upon the floor in anger ; you shall see 
I'll be as quiet as a little lamb. 
Third Child. [Bearing large alphabet card.] Not one 
of you [Looking around.] will be as good 
as me — 
I haven't learned a thing but A — B — [Hesitates.] 

C; 
Now, with such sweet-faced teachers, I can learn 
Those dreadful letters in a week, I'm sure. 
Fourth Child. [To Learning.] And wilt thou teach 
us, gentle lady? How 
I long to learn ! I would learn everything 
That books contain ; I'm greedy of all knowledge. 
Learning. [Caressing her.] Thou art an apt and cher- 
ished pupil. I 



Georgetown Centennial 25 

Shall lead thee through the paths of human knowl- 
edge, 
All beautiful ; yet study has some thorns. 
I'll teach thee of the wondrous lights above, 
Each faithful to its orbit ; and below, 
The unsounded deeps that evermore obey 
With punctual ebb and flow their Lady Moon. 
Strange countries, manners, languages shalt learn ; 
And oft to yon oak-tented solitude 
We shall repair for sweet repose and play, 
And Nature's self shall be our queen and mistress. 
First Child. How lovely that will be ! I long for it. 
Fifth Child. [To Humility.] What lovely violets 
crown your head! And see 
Your robe! Why, you are clad in these sweet 
flowers ! 
Where 'mid our mountains did ye gather them? 
Humility. [Caressing her.] Not in the mountains, but 
in shaded vales 
They grow, and hold a virtue in their fragrance. 
There is a spirit abroad whose very breath 
Hath power to sully thy bright innocence. 
Gay Vanity shall haunt thy every step, 
And Folly flaunts her colors everywhere; 
Temptation hovers like a bird of prey, 
And holiest souls are sometimes caught within 
Her talons ; Learning, too, so beautiful, 
Who has a train of glorious followers, 
May multiply thy dangers ; she herself 
Is safe, but when with us she bides. Wilt thou 
Then walk with me as Alma Mater's child ? 



26 Alma Mater or the 

[Song plays soft music on her lyre.] 

Fifth Child. O yes, with joy ; and let us go to the vales 

And wreathe a crown of violets for my head. 

[Exit with Humility: returns later crowned. 
Sixth Child. [Approaching Song.] What soft, deli- 
cious music! Wilt thou sing 
For us, and teach our hands to play ? 
Song. Yea, child, 

Thy willing guide I'll be in harmonies 
Of instrument and voice. The harp and lyre 
Shall yield their sweetest strains unto thy touch. 
The organ shall pour forth majestic chords 
That strike their echoes up the angelic choirs. 
Full oft I'll sing to thee, and thou shalt learn 
The sweetest melodies of earth and Heaven. 

Sixth Child. O let us hear the music of thy voice 
In holy chant ! 'Twill echo through our lives ! 

[Song plays and sings a sacred piece while 
the children listen enchanted; at its close 
Alma Mater leads Faith and Hope for- 
ward.] 

Alma Mater. Behold, dear children, Faith and Hope, 
twin-born ; 
Twine hands with them and love them. 

[The children stand in graceful poses, look- 
ing upon them with admiration.] 

Fifth Child. Beautiful 

Ye are and winning. Say, have ye the power 

To give to us such loveliness as yours? 

Can ye such treasures ope as Learning promised? 



Georgetown Centennial 27 

Faith. Yea, more and greater. To the courts of 
Heaven 
I lead you, 'mid the gleaming radiance 
Of thousand thousand spirits, morn and eve ; 
And then I cast a light by day and night 
That shows a princely spirit ever near, 
Whose love is more than tenderest mother-love, 
Who lightens with one hand the Cross, and in 
The other bears your Crown. 

Hope. For such as thou, 

Fair child, I hold my anchor [Extending it.] gar- 
landed 
With flowers ; but thou shalt lean on it in peace 
Amid the tempests; in the weeping heavens 
My rainbow thou shalt see, and learn to trust 
Unwavering, God's gentle Providence. 

Fifth Child. A language new thou speakest to my 
heart : 
I have known naught but ignorance and folly ; 
But now a universe of loveliness 
Dazzles my eyes. I choose ye for my guides. 

[Clasps the left hand of Faith and the right 
hand of Hope.] 

Alma Mater. And ye have chosen well, for they hold 
all 
God's secrets. Lovely shall your footsteps be 
O'er meadows green, beside still waters, till 
They lead you o'er the starry threshold. Oh, 
My children all, now mine by gift of greatness, 
Your choice as happy be! Light-hearted mirth, 
The dimpling cheeks of innocence, and feet 



28 Alma Mater or the 

Bounding as doth the deer among your mountains, 
Shall well become you — and thro' distant days, 
As banded down the vale of time ye go, 
Ye still shall be my glory and my crown. 
Liberty. This is a day that Fame shall trumpet far — 
A day of golden record in time's annals. 

glorious portent to our new-born Nation ! 
Unity. [Looking toward Prayer.} But who is this fair 

vision veiled, with front 
Serene and lofty brow that seems to seek 
Communion with the skies? 

Church. 'Tis holy Prayer, 

The loved associate of this virgin pure. 

For not alone she comes to guard your flock ; 

A sweet Sulamitess, the mystic rites 

Of contemplation give her higher power — 

Power o'er the Heart of God for you and yours. 

Prayer. To me she comes when the sweet breath of 
morn 
Unlocks the sleeping flowers and wakens all 
The singing birds ; and we together go 

[Takes the hand of Alma Mater. ,] 
To the hill of frankincense and offer praise. 
When Day's bright eye looks from the zenith, 

1 shoot Love's golden beams into her heart ; 
And when gray-hooded Twilight o'er the dew 
Trips noiselessly, we seek the snowy rills 

Of grace, that wash all stains of earth away. 
Unity. These rills shall permeate the land. One heart 
In all, I see, ye gracious Presences! 
One aim, one impulse shall work miracles; 



Georgetown Centennial 29 

And lo ! your mission crowned of God and men. 
Church. [Advancing.] And what, my daughter, dost 
thou pledge these friends 
Unparalleled ? 
Alma Mater. I pledge ye tireless service ; 

Here is my ark of rest — so gentle Heaven 
Hath willed. These breathing lilies of your vales, 
These tender plants, I'll save from baneful winds, 
From noisome vapors of the chill night air, 
And nurse them into strength and loveliness 
That shall befit them for the heavenly clime, 
When earth has drunk their fragrance to her fill. 
[Soft harp music to end of tableau. Alma 
Mater kneels with hands uplifted.] 
So here before high Heaven, begirt with spirits 
Angelic, saints and martyrs looking down, 
I make my vow to this all-glorious mission. 
[Clasps hands.] O Mary Mother, register this 

vow 
In Jesus' Heart unto eternity! 
Church. [With hands extended in benediction over 
Alma Mater.] The Triune Father, Son and 
Holy Ghost 
Descend upon thee and remain forever! 
Be faithful and thou shalt be Alma Mater 
To many a white-souled generation here. 

Tableau — Curtain. 
Act II. — Same Scene. 
Council of Vices. — A table under the trees 
spread with fruits, wines, etc.; seated near 



30 Alma Mater or the 

are Envy, Prejudice, Calumny, and Persecu- 
tion. Folly and Vanity peep from back- 
ground. Ignorance, hooded and cloaked, 
walks the foreground in a state of excite- 
ment. 

Ignorance. Fine doings these! the broad domain I've 
held 
For centuries, again invaded, now 
Not by the nobler sex to lay foundations 
Of broad far-reaching universities; 

[Folly and Vanity enter slowly.] 
'Tis but a puny woman, yet not less 
The peril to myself and you, my friends ; 
Already, shameless, haughty, she assumes 
The name of Alma Mater — cherishing Mother — 
Mother of minds, that she must needs develop 
And fill with bits of learning, smatterings 
Of science, and odd things old fogies thought 
And fools have acted. You, quick-witted Folly, 
Can you not circumvent her schemes? 

Folly. [Laughing.] I've tried 

My best, but can't get past the door as yet ; 
She teaches principles whose very breath 
Would blow my cap and bells away. I fear 
You'll have to seek a stronger hand than mine 
To unlock that gate. [Drinks a glass of wine.] 

Ignorance. Well, Vanity, what luck? 

Vanity. [Eating an apple and fanning herself.] O none 
at all! They dress in black and white, 
Poor homespun things, and this same beauteous 
toilet 



Georgetown Centennial 31 

Adorns their youthful simpletons; for them 
No powder, puffs, nor ruffs, no silken tissues ; 
Nor flaunting colors draw their glance, for when 
I peeped above the fence they ran away. 

Envy. [Laughing maliciously.] Indeed, I cannot won- 
der ; it did credit 
To their superior taste. 

Vanity. O blear-eyed Envy, 

You are all acid, head and heart; your mouth 
An everflowing fount of vinegar : 
Who heeds you? 

Calumny. Nay, 'tis not the time to quarrel: 

We must concert some means to drive her hence, 

Ere full-grown mischiefs follow in her wake. 

You, Persecution, with your heavy hand, 

Must crush her, break her, mind and body; yea, 

I marvel ye could to these triflers trust 

So arduous a charge, which rather calls 

For our combined efforts. I have done 

My part to take her down, and strewn reports 

As false as hell or hatred, that infect 

The public ear with poison. 

Prejudice. [Angrily.] None of you 

Have toiled as I since first she came among us. 

You, Calumny, can little boast, for I 

First led the way and you sneaked after. Ha! 

No nation and no family but knows 

What Prejudice can do to turn the tide 

In the affairs of men. 'Tis not alone 

The ear I gain, for I remould the heart 

Infallibly to mv opinion. 



32 Alma Mater or the 

Calumny. True, 

And when the judgment's turned awry, the ear 

Sucks falsehood as the bee sucks honey. 
Ignorance. [Striking with gavel on table.] Friends, 

We're wasting time, while she grows strong in 
power 

And menaces our every separate realm. 

I move that Persecution take the floor. 
Envy. And I the motion second. 
Prejudice. And I, too ; 

I know we're all agreed. 
Others. Agreed — agreed. 

Persecution. I rise, my honorable peers, with pleasure. 

Than my profession, none, I dare affirm, 

More noble — ancient as the human race ; 

From petty arts and stings of friend to friend 

That 'tis delight to foster, I pass on 

To thrusts of Hatred and Oppression's sword 

Envenomed, in the hearts of loyal subjects. 

I know no touch of mercy: I exult 

In torture, wringing hearts and racking bodies. 

I'm perfect in all modes of crushing souls — 
Envy. [Interrupting.] You think you are, but some- 
times you are foiled : 

They rise from their own native energy ; 

And they or higher powers hurl you prostrate 

Biting the dust ; I've seen you so. 
Persecution. [With scorn.] You, Envy, 

Are skilled as I ; but you [Slow prone gesture.] 
stab in the dark. 



Georgetown Centennial 33 

And now, dear friends, to show I've kept my com- 
pact, 
Already this fair Virgin is beset 
By troubles like a swarm of wasps : Temptation, 
Then Fear, I pushed in by a postern gate ; 
Discouragement, I think, climbed o'er the fence, — 
But there she is: and those three play the cards 
So well, there's little left for us to do. 
Her chanting choirs and praying girls will soon 
Disbanded be, and she an exile. 
Prejudice. Hail 

That happy day! But let us not grow languid. 
Use every engine that may haste the time 
That wreaks her ruin, for my very soul 
In torture is till she hath left the land. 
Folly. [Shaking her bells.] And so the Council's over. 

— May we go? 
Vanity. We have important duties waiting us — 

But — if you need — our presence — 
Prejudice. [With sarcasm.'] O your help 

We can dispense with — and not suffer loss ! 

[Vanity and Folly meet from opposite sides, 
and joining hands dance off, looking back- 
ward with smiles. Calumny and Envy fol- 
low hand in hand.] 
Ignorance. [To Persecution, with satirical laugh.] 
Lo! she comes, attended — 
This would-be Queen — by your three satellites. 
Prejudice. 'Twere better we should hide. These 
friendly trees 
Will shelter us the while we list their converse. 



34 Alma Mater or the 

[Prejudice, Persecution and Ignorance hide. 

Alma Mater approaches from right, led by 

Fear and accompanied by Temptation and 

Discouragement; she leans on the latter.] 

Fear. [Tremblingly.] You see, dear lady, all your 

prospects fail. 
I tremble for your future and am full 
Of sad forebodings for your happiness: 
I know not what you've done, but friends fall off. 
You have slack shelter from the winter's cold, 
You who were reared in luxury: hard couch 
Is yours; and Famine soon must haunt your side, 
For bread, even now, is doled in scanty measure. 
Temptation. [In dulcet tones, approaching Alma 

Mater.] You've done your part with honor: 

hope and love 
Have winged your steps, but now they've fled 

away 
Ne'er to return. Believe, this life is all 
Mistake and blunder: 'twas your choice, not 

God's: 
You are not fitted for this life austere ; 
Hide not your beauty 'neath a sombre veil ; 
Come back to our bright world, its ornament 
And joy — 
Alma Mater. [Waving her away.] Flee from me, thou 

low-thoughted spirit! 
How darest thou tempt me thus, God's chosen? 

He 
My Love forever is. Though He should cast 
Me forth an exile in the wilderness — 



Georgetown Centennial 35 

Without a star upon the unpathed waters, 

I'll trust Him unto death; for He hath laid 

A charge upon me, and in this fair land 

I plant the garden of the Visitation. 
Fear. Pardon, fair lady, but thou art fool-hardy: 

If thou wilt be religious, yet not here; 

Riches, fine buildings, wait thee otherwhere, 

And friends and pupils who will do thee credit. 

Prudence is virtue. 
Discouragement. Change your plan and leave 

These futile hopes. The Visitation ne'er 

Shall flourish in this barren clime. No use 

To fight 'gainst Fate. Go, join Saint Ursula's 
daughters, 

And Want and Trial wing their flight, and thou'rt 

Embraced by Peace and Plenty. 
Temptation. [Aside to Discouragement.] Well 

thou play'st 

Thy role : thou art my ablest champion ; 

To change her plan is good as giving up 

Her high-glossed mission. Keep thou near her 
side. 
Alma Mater. [Seated, leaning on Fear.] Alas, who 
shall my fainting spirit uplift 

In this dark moment? Where are those sweet 
Powers 

That led my footsteps hither.? 
Discouragement. See — they've fled! 

But we in pity of thy gentle youth 

And misery, flew to thy aid. 

[Vanity and Folly enter left.] 



36 Alma Mater or the 

Alma Mater. [Starts, lifts up Cross.] Begone! 

I know ye all : the light this image casts 
Reveals ye. Hence! Tho' clouds are round me 

pent, 
They soon shall break and I shall see the sun. 
Folly. [Bowing tauntingly.] I think ye are my sister, 
as light-headed 
And giddy in your hopes as I. You see 
You're in our power. 

[Vanity and Folly dance around her.] 
Enter Envy, Calumny, Prejudice, and Persecution; 

Ignorance peering from background. 
Alma Mater. [Rising.] Thou false and lying spirit ! 
Misfortune never bent a faithful soul 
To power like yours. 

Envy. [Pushing her back into seat.] A faithful soul 
indeed ! [Laughing sardonically.] 
Faithful to whom or what? If to your God, 
Why left you Him to dally with Temptation 
And rest in arms of weak Discouragement ? 
Faithful! Ha— ha— ha! 

[Persecution approaches; stands behind Alma 
Mater, armed with scourge and rope and 
binder.] 

Alma Mater. [With uplifted eyes.] He's merciful, 
albeit He leaves me now 
Prey to your malice. I will rise and go 
To find my white-robed friends, who have my side 
Forsaken for a little space. I see 
My way; they linger near. [Alma Mater rises; 



Georgetown Centennial 37 

Persecution draws her back and Prejudice 
blindfolds her.] 
Virtues appear in extreme left, enacting a beautiful 
pantomime. Faith, holding up Cross, Hope with 
anchor, and Charity between them with flaming 
Heart, enter first, looking with intense interest 
upon the scene. Prayer steps apart in foreground 
with eyes raised and hands clasped in supplication. 
Fortitude watches the Vices, alert and anxious, 
and moves to right of Hope, who speaks to her. 
Chastity and Humility approach arm in arm — 
Humility bows her head, weeping on Chastity's 
shoulder. Learning and Song appear last, gazing 
on the foreground with deep concern. The panto- 
mime continues through the scene — movements 
slow and graceful, countenances expressive of the 
deepest devotion and interest, — joy mingling with 
sympathy as Alma Mater s heroism rises to the 
climax. 
Hope. [Aside to Fortitude.] Go to her aid, 

My sister ; lo ! they blind and torture her ; 
She needs thee ! 
Fortitude. [Extending right hand toward Alma Ma- 
ter.] Nay, in suffering she grows strong 
And weds with holiness. And see how Prayer 
Doth violence to Heaven in her behalf! 
Prejudice. [Mockingly to Alma Mater.] So wonder- 
ful thou art, thou hast perchance 
The gift of second sight. [Strikes her.] Pray tell 

us now 
Who struck thee ? 



38 Alma Mater or the 

Alma Mater. O my Jesus, [Kissing Cross. ,] blessed be 
Thou, 
That in thy Passion yieldest me a part ! 

Calumny. Just hear her cant ! 'Tis pure hypocrisy. 
Your virtues are but shams to cheat the crowd ; 
You cozen them with smiles and flatteries 
To give you adoration, and pretend 
'Tis zeal, God's glory, and such stuff. But 'tis 
A cloak of gauze through which we see your pride. 

Virtues draw nearer, but remain witnesses of the 
struggle. 
Ignorance. [Caressing her.] Lady, I grieve to see you 
so ill-treated ; 
Say but one word and you are free. Tell us 
You'll leave our shores, or else at least you'll hide 
Your Heaven-dowered strength in some dark cor- 
ner, 
Your light and learning in obscurity, — 
For I do fear it — and I'll be your friend. 

Alma Mater. [Making an effort to rise.] How can I 
hide God's candle 'neath a bushel? 
How let this energy supernal pine 
And wither in the cave of selfish ease? 

[Rises and steps forward with dignity.] 
Ye well may fear me, Ignorance ; I'm here 
To chase you hence, [Extending her hand.] to 
cover you with shame. 

Persecution. [Seizing her hand roughly.] My hour is 
come ; [Looking at her palm.] I've nails that 
I can drive, 



Georgetown Centennial 39 

But [Contemptuously .] bonds suffice to hold a 
puny foe. 

[Binds her hands, aided by Ignorance.] 
Down on your knees, and swear that you'll give up 
Our daughters and go hence — for death is near, 
But first is torture thine. 

[Distant thunder: darkness and storm.] 

Envy. Away — away ! 

Thou canst not stay ; the very elements 
Conspire against thee. [Storm increases — a pause.] 

Prejudice. See! the sun is darkened — 

Earth threatens to engulf thee: flee in time! 

[Light breaks in — thunder ceases.] 

Alma Mater. Never shall I betray my trust. Ye 
Heavens ! 
Give ear unto my vow: faithful to death 
To God's high will, tho' armies should encamp 
Around my paths, my heart shall know no fear. 
I vow, tho' Famine, Persecution, yea, 
And Slander, dog my steps, I shall not swerve : 
The House of God shall builded be on base 
Firm as eternity, for 'tis God's word 
The vision pledged: — "Pax super Israeli" 

Envy. Choke up her throat with gall! Here, drink, 
[Presents cup.] and feel 
What 'tis to thwart us. 

Alma Mater. [Drinks smiling.] Thank ye, sweet it is, 
The draught of Jesus dying on the Cross: 
Yea, Lord, pain is the tonic of the soul, 
Tho' nerve and muscle quiver; now Thy Will 
Is clear : — the Visitation we shall be — 



4-0 Alma Mater or the 

Our Master, Francis, the sweet Saint of Sales. 
The Virtues draw nearer. 
Persecution. [Scourging her.] Take that — and that — 
betimes repent your folly ! 
[Prejudice tears off her veil and throws it on 
the ground.] 
Alma Mater. O holy Spouse ! now can I say with Thee, 
They struck me and they wounded me ; they took 
Away my veil from me. Alas ! I faint. 

[Sinks down.] 
Discouragement. [Coming to her aid.] Fear not, dear 

lady, thou art in my arms. 
Alma Mater. [Struggling to rise.] Nay, never! death 
were better. 

Liberty and Columbia appear, left, in background: An- 
gel of Justice to the right. 
Persecution. Then here's death 

To end thy folly and bravado! [Raises a sword, 
which is suddenly seized and broken in halves 
by Justice.] 
Angel of Justice. Nay, 

Not death, but Life this maid heroic wins ! 
Heaven opened, and while seraph hosts looked on, 
I sped swifter than meteor down the blue 
To speak just Heaven's sentence. Back, 
Back to your native dens, ye clay-born spirits, 
Compact of cruelty and vice! 

[Persecution and Prejudice flee in shame.] 
Liberty. [To Angel of Justice.] I knew not 

Till now the dark conspiracy hatched up 



Georgetown Centennial 41 

Against this noble Virgin. [Unbinds Alma Mater s 
eyes and bends lovingly over her.} 
See, fair lady, 
This Angel at thy side — white-handed Justice ! 
He comes from Heaven to right thy cruel wrongs. 

Columbia. [Unbinding Alma Mater s hands.} Ye cow- 
ards! here within my free demesnes, 
How dare ye plant your burs and thistles rude 
Upon the path of her, my meek-e)^ed guest, 
Welcomed so late with song and Friendship's 
hand? 

Liberty. Fly hence! you've work enough in the world 
to do 
To sate your evil appetites. This land 
I rule, and not a rod of its green space 
Shall Persecution ever build a tent on. 
No, nor her dense companion, Ignorance, 
Nor any of your gloomy rout. 

Ignorance. [Angrily.} And this 

Is Liberty ! Your name's a mockery. 

Envy. [To Liberty.} Thou comest to give freedom 
unto all ; 
How darest thou, then, exert restraint on us? 

Liberty. For that ye all are lawless and malicious. 
True liberty is order, law and virtue. 
I come to make life better, happier, — like 
To Heaven, and ye would make it like to hell. 

Vices begin to fall slowly and reluctantly toward back- 
ground, casting furtive glances of malice upon 
their reprovers. 



42 Alma Mater or the 

Angel of Justice. Fear not, O Virgin! rise in added 

grace, 
Endued with higher strength and beauty: 
A house with seven pillars thou art building, 
And Wisdom hath her gates securely barred : 
Ye cannot enter, Folly, with your cap 
And bells; [Folly turns away ashamed.] nor, 

Vanity, shall you with taint 
Of worldliness infect her children's hearts; 

[Vanity retires.] 
Secure they dwell beneath a hallowed roof. 
Pale Envy, all thy poisonous darts are vain, 
They but recoil on thine own breast; [Envy de- 
parts.] behold! 

[Harp music — Angels appear in background.] 
Yon trio's taunts and blows have compassed her 
With Paradise ; this beauteous grove is trod 
By guarding Angels: list their harmonies! 
Alma Mater. [Looking at the Angel with ecstatic 

face.] Am I — in Heaven — or do I dream? 

O God, 
My — sweet — Preserver, [Leans on Charity: 

Prayer stands near.] Help me — bear — this 

joy! 

Magnificat in full chorus, with piano, harps and vio- 
lins. Enter Church with acolytes bearing censer 
and candles. Chastity and Faith follow — the for- 
mer bearing a black veil, the latter a silver cross. 
Alma Mater kneels while Church invests her with 
the cross received from Faith, the veil from Chas- 



Georgetown Centennial 43 

tity, a lighted candle from Hope, and a crucifix 
from Fortitude. The ceremony over, Alma Mater 
rises, forming the center of a beautiful tableau. 

Tableau — Curtain. 

Act III. 

1899. Alma Mater is discovered on throne, 
with her attendant train around her, Charity 
on her right and Prayer on her left. Enter 
Liberty and Columbia, who greet her on the 
occasion of her Centenary. 

Liberty. [Addressing the audience of Alumnae.] 
Behold ! a Hundred Years of fruitful life 
Sit on our Alma Mater's queenly brow: 
Perennial youth looks forth from her sweet eyes, 
Beaming with love's exalted motherhood. 
Her smile is radiant, yet grave, as well 
Becometh one who hath clasped hands full oft 
With pale-faced Grief, and walked within Death's 
shadow. 

Columbia. But now the olive branch of victory 

She holds, and looking back thro' fading years 

With eyes undimmed and memory alert, 

She calls her loved ones from far-sundered homes, 

From the wide limits of our continent — 

And other lands, too, are her tributaries — 

For she would gather to her heart her daughters 

In this her hour of joy. 

Alma Mater. [Addressing Alumnae.] Yea, O my 

children ! 



44 Alma Mater or the 

Broad as the blue wave-crested ocean, free 
As this May-scented air, and true as heart 
To pulsing arteries, my Welcome is. 
How love and prayer untiring have pursued 
Your busy steps thro' tangled ways of life 
Since first ye left my side! How I have smiled 
When Joy caressed your glowing cheeks, and wept 
When Tribulation threshed your hearts like grain ! 
Your white-winged messages have been as dear 
As water to the thirsty traveler. [Enter, right, 
Maryland with three Nuns — Baltimore, 
Frederick, and Mount de Sales.] 
Your sweet remembrances and brief sojourns 
As pleasant as the sunshine after rain. 

Chastity. [Taking the hand of a Nun.] Behold this 
generation chaste, the first-fruits 
Of thy espousals with the Lord ! They come 
Thy Virgin Daughters to their Mother's glory 
To add their share. [All congee.] Behold Mary's 

loved child, 
Fair Baltimore! 

Baltimore. [Bearing crimson roses.] O Mother 

of our Home ! 
We bear to thee the love of many hearts 
Twined 'mid these crimson roses, dripping dew; 
And prayers and happy wishes blend ; O may 
Our Alma Mater's joy be multiplied 
A hundred-fold this glorious day ! 

Maryland. [A Nun on either side.] With love 

And honor I these daughters two present, 



Georgetown Centennial 45 

The guardians oi our mountain haunts, de Sales 
And Frederick. 
Mount de Sales. [Offering flowers.'] I bring 

to thee sweet violets : 
The perfume of our blessed Saint of Sales, 
Which first thou gavest, they bear back to thee, 
O happy daughter of a gracious Father ! 
Frederick. [Offering basket.] And I fair clusters of 
my hillside grapes 
Have intertwined with golden wheat: they tell 
Of that sweet mystery where love and strength 
Were nurtured thro' these Hundred Years of life. 
Alabama enters, left, leading Nun, Mobile. 
Mobile. [With basket of oranges.] Where thy heroic 
offspring oped the way 
'Mong Alabama's streams and orange groves 
Thy virtues and thy trials still are heard: 
The fruits of these we offer, O our Mother ! 
Columbia enters, right, with Nun. 
Columbia. I lead to thee thy dear child, Washington. 
Washington. [Pointing to statue of Angel Guardian.] 
An angel thou hast been to us : what could 
Our thought devise more fit to tell our thanks ? 
Behold them sculptured there in speaking stone ! 
Enter, right, two Nuns with Kentucky. 
Cardome and Maysville. [In unison.] Kentucky 
guards our home ; with her we come 
To kiss thy hand, thou source of light and joy! 
Beameth thy light upon its candlestick 
Still shedding comfort o'er the world and us. 

[Pointing to candelabra.] 



46 Alma Mater or the 

Behold thyself in miniature in these 
Soft-blazing lights, memorial of our love. 

Enter Virginia and West Virginia with train of Nuns. 

Virginia. My vision of thy early days fulfilled — 
Within the beauteous borders, then all mine, 
I and my Sister hold our watch and ward 
O'er four that long were nurtured at thy breast. 

Mount de Chantal. [Bearing Palm.] From cloud- 
capped mountains where Saint Chantal reigns, 
The Palm of victory to our Alma Mater 
Lowly I bring: a century of praise 
Is hers. O may her spotless record live 
Thro' ages till the trump of doom shall sound ! 

Parkersburg. [Points to painting of Mary.] Our 
offering, lo! before thee stands: the sweet 
And willing labor of our hands, and yet 
Our heart's love had a touch in every stroke. 
May that dear Virgin Mother overflow 
Thy cup of happiness this triumph day! 

Abingdon and Richmond. [In unison.] We gathered 
at the blushing dawn for thee 
Stately magnolias, winged with odors light, 

[Offering them.] 
Which bear, like carrier pigeons, words of love 
To add to this sweet empery of joy. 

Alma Mater. O Daughters of my love ! this happiness 
Is torrent-like — it floods my very being. 
I have done naught to merit it. 

New York. Thou hast, 

If children rise and call their mothers blessed. 
York, too, hath trophies for thee. 



Georgetown Centennial 47 

Brooklyn and Parkville. [In unison.] Yea, we bring 
From the cold North a pair of snow-white doves: 
I. — The dove bought back her Jesus unto Mary; 
II. — And Jesus loved its sweet simplicity. 
Both. — He first, and then our Blessed Father 

made 
Its gentle laws for us a heavenly treasure. 
Delaware. Lo! here my favorite, Wilmington. 
Wilmington. [Bearing folio books.] Our Saint's 

Dear writings, steeped in Annecy's own heart, 
And teeming with the aroma that still floats 
Up from the purple palace of his tomb, 
And angel-wafted falls o'er all the world — 
I lay upon the altar of thy joy. 
Alma Mater. O blessed words! [Kissing book.] de- 
licious bread of life, 
On which my soul hath fed from infancy. 
I thank thee, [Bowing.] bless ye all for your rich 
gifts. 
Missouri advances between two Nuns, who bear rich 

banners. 
Saint Louis. [I. and II. in unison.] From far Mis- 
souri, [Bowing.] which has long been twined 
Amid the tendrils of thy heart, we come 
To hail thee with our banners, white and gold. 
I. — The Sacred Heart of Jesus be thy stay! 
II. — Thy home the breast of Mary, Queen of 

May! 
Both. — Thy joy unending as the eternal day! 
Iowa enters, left, Minnesota, right, each leading a 
Nun. 



48 Alma Mater or the 

Iowa. This modest virgin is thy loved Dubuque: 
Traditions of thy sainted ones she holds, 
Which she preserves as jewels set in gold. 

Minnesota. And Minnesota comes in pride to see 
Her dear apostle greet thee, Alma Mater : 
Saint Paul hath clad her with his scarf of zeal. 

Saint Paul. [Left, bearing vines."] A strong oak-tree 
thou art, of century's growth : 
With clinging vines thy boughs are interlaced 
That deck thee with new verdure year by j^ear. 

Dubuque. [Right, bearing vines.] The hoary hand of 
Time shall never dim 
Thy youthful beauty — thou shalt ne'er grow old ; 
And we, thy vines, shall clasp thee with our love. 
Illinois advances, left, with Nun. 

Evanston. [Bearing lilies.] Where the White City 
reared its wondrous domes 
I've stretched my tent from many wanderings, 
With thee my comfort, as in days of yore. 

Illinois. [To Evanston.] And I have waited long for 
thee: anear 
The waters of my blue lake, dwell in peace, 
For Alma Mater's children love thee ; thou 
Shalt build thy house upon a rock of rubies, 
Their strong hearts. 

Evanston. [To Alma Mater.] Lo — my pledge 

of constancy, 
These lilies ! 

Alma Mater. Thou shalt have a crown for ashes, 
The oil of joy for mourning, and a robe 
Of praise for the spirit of grief. 



Georgetown Centennial 49 

Enter Washington, right, and Idaho, left, each leading 
Nun. 

Tacoma. [With fruits.] I, too, 

Afar upon the bright Pacific slope, 
Where Washington my faithful guardian is, 
Thy tender influence feel. There, where the sun 
Shot down his burning glance o'er snow-tipped 

mounts, 
These fruits have ripened all for thee. 

Lewiston. [Bearing wild flowers.] The last 

And least of all thy happy daughters, I 
With Idaho have bridged the airy space, 
My little tribute of wild flowers to offer. 

Alma Mater. [Holding flowers.] O mayst thou, little 
one, still grow in grace 
And loveliness as these before His sight 
Who said: "I am the flower of the field." 

Liberty. And thou, fair California, hast brought 
No love-boon from her children on thy shores 
To grace our Alma Mater's feast? 

California. Ah, no! 

I've stood before the sunset's Golden Gate 
Through gliding years, peering with tired eyes 
Across the gilded waves, to catch a glimpse 
Of a white sail [To Alma Mater.] winging thy 

peace to me — 
A freight of Visitandine souls of courage. 

Massachusetts. [To Alma Mater.] And I, whence 
Liberty first raised her arm 
To strike Oppression out, have seen thee gird 
Thy strength, while History trod o'er the land 



5<3 Alma Mater or the 

Weaving her woof of glory's gold and white 
With threads of scarlet from the battle-field, 
And where the ships go down in the deep waters — 
That sable threads betrayed a nation's grief 
Amid the triumph ; and her tapestry 
Shows forth the world's great conqueror, in peace 
Yielding to us wide-watered shores and groves 
Of Eden beauty: then the Mexic land 
Marked off its fairest gardens for our pleasure. 
And treading close upon the march of conflict, 
Ever came sturdy exiles from the frown 
And scourge of Tyranny, to seek the goods 
That [Bowing.] Liberty with bounteous hand 

dispenses ; 
Building our churches, culturing our fields, 
Leading the white-maned Commerce down our 

rivers 
And o'er our peerless chain of lakes, till now 
The world is beggar of our riches. — Yea, 
And where the wild beast held the wilderness, 
And savage war-whoop echoed to its howl, 
Broad cities rise, where Faith hath found a home 
And Art and Learning. Thou [To Alma Mater.] 

with calm-browed Peace, 
And resting in the arms of Prayer, hast looked 
From earth to Heaven, from Heaven to earth 

serene, 
Charging thy daughters by their hopes of Heaven 
To walk the way of Justice. I have watched 
And longed that thou shouldst set thy peaceful feet 
Upon my Rock, and where Saint Botolph rules. 



Georgetown Centennial 51 

Columbia. [To Massachusetts and California.] Fair 
Sisters, falls the robe of prophecy 
Upon me, and a light, piercing the deeps 
Of the new century, reveals fulfilled 
Your holy longings. Ye shall see the veil 
And silver cross adorn your maidens, while 
Ye build them choirs and spacious cloisters, 'mid 
The stateliest sylvan scenes of your own choosing. 
Alma Mater. Ye feed my heart with manna: 'tis a joy 
So far surpassing human joys, that He 
Who sees the heart knows that an angel's voice 
Were needed for full utterance. And ye, [To 
four who now approach — a lady of seventy- 
five, one of fifty, one of twenty-five, and a 
child of six.] 
Dear children mine, ye are welcome, for ye tell 
Of many generations ; and each face 
Is limned in my remembrance, as the page 
On which his soul is writ unto the poet, 
Or statue of a Christ unto its sculptor : 
For O ! ye know how I have striven to paint 
His features on your soul's fair canvas. 
Old Lady. [Child sits on step with doll.] Yea, 

Our Alma Mater! in the days of old, 
When our young tresses mocked the glittering sun- 
shine, 
Or flung their challenge to the raven's wing, 
We clustered at thy knee — I and some hundreds — 
To lisp our prayers or say our well-conned task, 
Or listen as thou told'st in tender tone 
Of saints, young Agneses in love divine, 



52 Alma Mater or the 

Who passed from school unto the cloister's shade ; 
Or of our mothers, what they did and said 
In antique times when they thy pupils were. 
Ah, me ! the gold and purple-black, behold ! 
Time's hand hath silvered, as along his path 
We went in gay procession, oft pursued 
By slow-paced sorrows or the lightning-stroke 
That laid our loved ones low. The world went 

on 
Its rosy progress, recking not our loss, 
While thou, O tender friend, in spirit wert near: 
Thy voice we heard within our soul's deep temple 
Breathing the far-off music of our childhood, 
And comfort came, and hope grew beautiful 
With sunlit vistas in a forest of pain. 
Look o'er these happy faces [A gesture toward 

audience.] gazing up 
With sweet content at this brief pause in life : 
A life of heroisms for many who drank 
The dripping wells of grace, and were anointed 
For mortal conflict with the foe, by thee 
With oil more potent than of Grecian wrestlers. 
We hail thee, Alma Mater! and our love 
Grafted to thee in early youth, still green, 
Grows stronger 'mid the chilly dews of age. 

[Bends to kiss Alma Mater s hand.] 
Alma Mater. [Rising.] Nay, let me embrace thee, 

daughter of my heart ! 
Precious the snow and wrinkles of old age 
To those who love. Honor and happy life 

[Smiling toward Alumnae.] 



Georgetown Centennial 53 

Be to the dear ones thou dost represent ! 

Old Lady. [Extending her hand toward three younger 
ones.~\ Behold three generations of my joys! 
This is the center of my heart, my daughter, 

[Caressing her.] 
Left to proclaim Love's victory over Death. 
At morning Mass and when Night draws her veil 
Upon her offices of gentle love, 
I bless my God that thou wert teacher, friend, 
And counsellor to her. 

Alma Mater. [Laying hand on her head.] Thy 

praise, my child, 
Comes sweet from mother's lips. 

Middle-aged Lady. But mother love, [Looking fondly 
on her mother and taking her hand.] 
Doth it not oft exaggerate? Yet I 
Would truly be, as one who drank for years 
The chalice of your teachings. Chosen here 
To raise my voice in praise and gratulation 
For them who stand anear life's middle portal, 
I hold their hearts a mirror still, where thou 
Mayst see thyself reflected. Our life-work 
Was founded here: and tho' 'tis marred by faults 
Of human weakness, yet we trust to be, 
Not seem, our Mother's glory and her crown. 
A principle leaps o'er each obstacle 
And carries troops of noble works along ; 
So principle hath led some back to thee 
To cloistral rest: and in home's sanctuary, 
Surrounded by our growing "olive plants," 
It guides full many to the highest good, 



54 Alma Mater or the 

Strengthening the sinews of the soul to bear 

Life's burdens for the sake of other lives. 

And principle hath called some gentle spirits 

To linger thro' the vales of Poesy, 

Or climb thro' thorns her mount majestical, 

While Art and Music beckoned some their ways. 

And numberless activities have spread 

Where able heads and generous hearts combine 

For Charity and sweet Philanthropy, 

Or — not less noble — for the upward march 

Of intellectual progress. [The little child ascends 

the steps and seats herself at Alma Mater s 

feet.] 
Alma Mater. Ye have made 

Me proud and happy, O my cherished Daughters ! 
Knowledge and Power are twins, nay, they are 

one 
For the world's ruling when your guide is God. 
I would not have ye build a pyramid 
To Pride : nay, build the House of Holiness 
In many souls, your own the first. 
Middle-aged Lady. But ah ! 

The hundred eyes of Argus oft were needed 
'Gainst sallies of Temptation and the World 
As on we pressed ; and thou hast been to us 
A wayside inn, where oft we turned for rest 
And sweet refreshment. But my daughter waits, 
And I am too prolix, the fault of Love 
And Age. 
Young Lady. [Bears roses; kisses Alma Mater s hand.] 
What shall thy young Alumnae bring 



Georgetown Centennial 55 

To deck their Alma Mater's centuried brows ? 
Garlands of June's bright roses were the fittest. 
So young we are, the world is new as yet, 
Brimming with pleasure ; and the cup of love 
We drink, for God hath placed it at our lips, 
Cherubic watchers guarding home and heart. 
But fear not ; to the world's sweet poison, thou 
An antidote hast given. Old memories 
Shall wind our hearts with new-born tendrils, year 
By year : the chapel song, the evening prayer, 
The shaded walks and scent of garden flowers, 
The halls, our old torn books, shall speak to us 
A language of enchantment : and thy counsels, 
The rays of morning unto us, shall shine 
Still brighter at our noonday, and still hold 
Their lustre at our life's decline. Today 

[Little child steps down and puts arm around 
her mother.] 
Unmeasured joy is ours — unmeasured love, 
Whose sweet arithmetic an angel's skill 
Could scarcely sum in all these loyal hearts, 
Where Winter, Autumn, Summer, meet with 

Spring. 

[Laying her hand on the child's head.] 

Little Child. I tried to learn a speech the Seniors 
taught me 
Just because I'm the smallest girl in school: 
I promised them I'd say it; but my doll [Kissing 

it.] 

Has been so naughty, I've forgot it all. 



56 Alma Mater or the 

I hope the Seniors and the rest forgive me: 
And so I'll tell you just as I tell mamma, 
We love you, O so much ! a thousand bushels — 
And now I'll kiss you "sweet good-bye." 

[Alma Mater bends over and kisses her — the 
child trips down to a Senior who is ap- 
proaching the throne.] 

Senior Graduate. O Alma Mater! we can say no more. 

This child 
Has voiced our love in sweet simplicity; 
And every heart — from 'Ninety-nine, whose tears 
With smiles commingle on this triumph day, 
Touching with hallowed stains [Lifts the Class 

Ribbon.] our Pink and Gray, — 
Down thro' the ranging years of class and class, 
With varying colors bright, Crimson and Black, 
And Red and Blue, to this dear graduate 

[Caressing the child.] 
Of nineteen hundred ten, hath but one word 
For thee — the highest, purest, language holds — 
We love thee! 

[Virtues disappear gradually.] 

dlma Mater. One of earth's greatest poets wrote: 
"Thanks is the exchequer of the poor." But love, 
Love, too, is the exchequer of the poor, 
And mine is overflowing with its gold, 
Coined in my heart of hearts, inscribed and signed 
With the dear names of all my Daughters, here 
And far away on earth, and looking down 
From Heaven to shed their rapture on our joy. 



Georgetown Centennial 57 

Prayer. Sweet as the spikenard broke so long ago, 
The delicate homage earth lays at thy feet ; 
But now those hands that once anointed thee 
For thy great mission wait to crown thy brow. 

Alma Mater. [Rises — stands between Liberty and 
Columbia.} The Church, my light and guide! 
O Hundred Years, 
Across your shining track, heavenward I've seen 
Them go, the Mitred Saints, 2 from him whose life 
Gave breath to me — to him whose modest merit 
The world acknowledges and God has crowned 
Pre-eminent in glory in our land, 
Whose Scarlet is no bar to lowliness 
Or grief or misery pleading at his gates. 
And each has been to me a tower of strength. — 
To them, and to that army of the Lord, 3 
Whose bright insignia is embossed and wrought 
By Zeal's own fingers and by martyrs' blood 
In "Ad majorem Dei gloriam," — 
And to each surpliced guardian of our flock 
I render thanks whose fullness touches Heaven. 

Music — harps, violins and pianos. Enter Procession; 
Faith, Hope, Charity in wheel dance; Learning 
and Song, Chastity and Fortitude, Prayer with 
censer; a little girl with crown on silken pillow; 
Church enters last, in Cardinal's robes, attended 
by acolytes; as Church appears the whole chorus 
breaks forth in the Coronation Hymn, while a 
graceful tableau is formed; Alma Mater in center, 
Church by her side. 



58 Alma Mater or the 

Coronation Hymn. 

Crown her, crown our Alma Mater 
With her jeweled crown of years ; 
Of her daughters' hearts 'tis woven, 
And in love's bright gold appears. 
Liberty. [Solo.] 

Far and near they come to greet her, 
Greet her triumph day of days — 
And their hymns of joy are echoed 
Thro' the land with love and praise. 

Chorus. 

Crown her, crown our Alma Mater 
With her jeweled crown of years ; 
Of her daughters' hearts 'tis woven, 
And in love's bright gold appears. 
Church. I've watched with heart that beats in unison 
With all these loyal hearts assembled here, 
To pay this matchless tribute to thy merit. 
The pledge thou gav'st a Hundred Years ago 
Of "tireless service" thou hast kept ; and thou 
Hast "saved our tender plants from baneful winds, 
From noisome vapors of the chill night air, 
And nursed them into strength and loveliness." 
And white-souled generations passed away 
Look down amid the cherubim and thrones 
To see thee crowned [Takes crown and holds it 

up.] with these bright gems of earth, 
Wove by thy Daughters' love, who are indeed 
Thy peerless jewels. [Crowns her kneeling.] 



Georgetown Centennial 59 

'Tis a symbol fair 
Of the divine coronal heavenly love 
Is weaving out of God's own treasury 
For thee and thine. O may the Century 
Whose portals ope beneath this triumph arch 
But usher thee into more glorious paths 
Of usefulness and honor for our country, 
This land, where Liberty [Gestures toward her.] 

is guardian spirit, 
Whose eagle floats above us, and whose stars 
Point to a higher land, where, 'mid the Church 
Triumphant, thou and all thy white-souled 

Daughters 
Shall shine, star-crowned, for all eternity ! 

Tableau — Chorus. 

Hail, O hail our Alma Mater 
In her jeweled crown of years; 
Of her Daughters' hearts 'tis woven, 
And in love's bright gold appears. 
Lo ! our Holy Church with gladness 
Doth her lights and incense bring, 
And her brow with glory crowneth 
Who is Daughter of the King! 

Curtain. 



HERMINE 



A Drama in Three Acts. 

Persons of the Play. 

Lady Francesca Brackenburn, a young widow. 

Hermine, her daughter, four years old. 

Lady Anne Brackenburn, her mother-in-law. 

Sister Marie, a Sister of Charity, her friend. 

Anna Leslie, maid to Lady Francesca. 

Jeannette, maid to Lady Anne. 

Meg Burns, ) T . . 

„. _, , t1 > servants to Lady Anne. 
Lllen Campbell, \ 

Elise, a stewardess. 

Dame Murray. 

Maude Wellman, ) .. T . _ 

... ___ ., > pupds to Lady Francesca. 

Alice Wellman, V 

A servant ; passengers on vessel. 



HERMINE 

Scene. — On a ship at sea; in America; in 
Scotland; in France. 

Act I. 

Scene I. On a Ship at Sea. 

In the cabin. Lady Francesca is discovered near crib 
of Hermine in center. Anna Leslie at her left. 

Lady Francesca. How wildly rocked the vessel all the 

night ! 
I held my child tight to my aching heart — 
So tight that if the angry billows' strength 
Had gulfed us with tempestuous sweep far down 
In watery vales, abysses fathomless, 
Mid rocks and spars and huge uncounted monsters, 
And hurtled us an hundred leagues away, 
We would have risen to the cruel sunlight 
Still riveted in that immortal clasp. 
[Bending over crib.~\ My child ! my child ! my 

all-the-world ! Naught else 
To live for now — love, husband, home, all gone: 
And Heaven hath turned to me a face of brass, 
And shut my way up with square stones. Ah, me ! 
If I could pray — but when I teach my child 
Its prayer, my soul in fierce rebellion rises. 



64 Hermine 

Had I but heeded the sweet voice that spake 
In years agone — obeyed those pleading eyes, 
That nevermore on earth shall meet my gaze, 
And ne'er forsook my own fair Italy 
For cold, inhospitable, northern shores: 
But ah ! he loved me and I could not stay. 
And my sweet child! how soft her prayer to- 
night — 
"Dod bess dear mamma and her little dirl, 
And bwing dear papa back to us aden." 
Anna, is she not feverish? Methinks 
Her breathing's hot and hurried. 

Anna. Nay, dear lady, 

Your mother fears start up at naught; but now 

I do bethink me, late this afternoon 

That dark-haired, bead-eyed woman, whom we 

met 
So oft upon the deck, her peering gaze 
Fixed on Hermine — 

Lady Francesca. As she would drink her beauty ; 

My darling! who could help it? 

Anna. Nay, not so; 

She hath an evil eye, and sweet Hermine 
Shrinks from her presence. As we walked this eve 
The grand salon, the stewardess, who's ever kind, 
Begged my dear charge of me to get some sweets 
Which she had made for her. Ten minutes passed ; 
I sought the stewardess ; lo ! in her room 
That hateful creature, Murray named ; and trem- 
bling 



Hermine 65 

Upon her knee was my sweet babe with eyes 
Distended, and her pretty face all flushed. 
"Take me to mamma, nursey!" shrieked the child, 
And sank within my arms as in a swoon. 
I hate that woman, and a secret dread 
Comes o'er me when I meet her. 

Lady Francesca. . Strange — thou said'st 

That in the village thou hadst met her once. 

Anna. And on your grounds, my lady, twice she walked 
In close consult with Lady Brackenburn, 
Three days ere we set sail ; your plans were sure 
O'erheard by creatures of my lady, foes 
To you and sweet Hermine — 

Lady Francesca. [Excitedly.] Great God! my child? 
You think — speak, Anna! 

Anna. How unfold the depth 

Of villainy their hideous plot conceals ? 
Not sated with the ruin of your name, 
Your spotless reputation, they have schemed 
To rob you of your child. As trusty William, 
The night before we left, passed through the hall, 
He handed me a doll Hermine had dropped, 
He said, in the garden. It was false, I knew. 
But pinned to the shoulder I this paper found : 
Read it, madam, and judge. 

Lady Francesca. [Reads."] "Your plans are known: 
Beware a dark-eyed witch who sails with you. 
Watch o'er Hermine or she is lost." Is lost? 
Is lost? O Heaven! Fate unrelenting, cruel, 
Must all be torn from me by thy dark hand? 
The Lady Brackenburn — the hard of heart, 



66 Hermine 

That monster in the guise of woman — how 
Did she give birth to my sweet husband? He? 

[Murray enters Left and listens.} 
No earthly title could enhance his glory ; 
He was a temple of nobility — 
Gentle yet strong — as lion brave, yet tender 
As the pet lamb he gave me on my birthday, 
Scarce six sad months agone — [A noise is heard: 
Anna turns and Murray disappears.} 
Ha! who comes here? 

Anna. Madam, an eavesdropper; Murray, that woman, 
I do believe, my lady. [Child shrieks in sleep.] 

Lady France sea. [Anxiously.] See — her sleep 

Is troubled and affrighted. 

Child. Mamma ! mamma ! 

O turn and help me! 

Lady Francesca. [Kneeling by crib.] Darling, precious 
one, 
Rest thou in peace ; no harm shall near thee come. 
Bright angels watch above thee ; and this heart, 
Thy mother's broken heart, thy pillow is. 

Scene II. Cabin of Ship. 

Enter Dame Murray and Stewardess Elise. 
Elise. A pretty child it is — a perfect beauty; 
A sight of good it does me just to see her 
And hear her prattle ; strange, she comes to me 
Without a whimper, patters o'er the deck, 
Says me her sweet dood-night and morning ; yet 
So 'feard of you. I'll never try to cheat 



H ermine 67 

The pretty darling so again. 

Murray. [Frowning and looking cautiously around.] 
Why not? 
I'll tell you how to earn a pretty sum 
By doing almost nothing; 'tis a chance 
That comes not often in a life — a good 
One hundred pounds. [Aside.] I think I can 

afford 
From my one thousand promised, to engage 
This for such fair swift help as she can give : 
And then, perchance, I'll fool her in the end. 

Elise. [Thoughtfully.] 'Twill take me many a year to 
earn so much. 

Murray. I'll teach you how to earn it in a day. 
The child, Hermine, I've orders to secure 
From that low woman whom she calls mamma, 
And take her back to her own proud domain. 
Within two days the ship will touch the shore: 
If, in the hurry of landing, you will beg 
To hold the child and bring it swift to me, 
This check is yours. 

Elise. [In horror.] Surely, you do not mean 

To steal the child from its own mother's arms? 

Murray. You simpleton — you do not understand? 
The child is of a noble house, and now 
Dragged off to poverty, perhaps to death, 
By this unworthy woman. Mercy 'tis, 
To take the babe back to her princely home, 
And rescue her from such a fate as this. 

Elise. Is she so guilty ? Why, she looks more like 
An angel than a woman — gentle-bred, 



68 Hermine 

And full of dignity as grace. 

Murray. [Contemptuously.] Low-born, 

She caught a young lord by her cheating arts ; 
Magic she must have used, for I ne'er saw 
Beauty in her dark face, or grace of form, 
Or one poor grain of merit in her mind. 
But no more words — you'll help me ? 

Elise. [Walking toward left.] I must think; 

[Pauses.] 
What if you get the child and go secure, 
And I be put in prison? — Anyhow 
Your project's silly; how could you escape, 
However great the throng, without detection, 
A shrieking child within your arms? [Dusting.] 

Murray. [Aside.] Poor fool! 

She thinks I am an idiot like herself: 
She little knows what means I have to still 
Its squalling, and who waits me at the wharf 
To bear me safe away. [To Elise.] That's very 

true; 
But yet through mercy for the innocent 
I'll risk the danger — even a prison wall. 
And you — humanity and this broad check 
Should make you soon decide the question. 

[Walks right, reading a newspaper.] 

Elise. [Aside, sighing.] Well — 

I'd like a hundred pounds; poor mother's sick, 
And brothers four that must be clothed and fed — 
How they will bless me for my welcome gift ! 
And fair Hermine will have her own bright home. 
And I — I will not steal the child — no judge 



H ermine 69 

Can lay it at my door; — I'll say the babe 
Was snatched from me by — some one in a mask, 
That's just the thing — and then if they catch 

Murray 
She'll have to pay for it, that's all ; and I 
Shall have my clear one hundred pounds. 

Murray. [Looking up from newspaper.] Well, friend, 
Do you consent? 

Elise. If — all is as you say, 

I think 'tis good to aid you ; — but the check — 
I'd — rather have the money paid in gold. 

Murray. Why ! do you think I'd carry so much gold ? 
A traveler is in danger every step ; 
Less weight, more safety. But my lady's name 
Is good at any bank in Christendom. 
You've but to show it and the yellow pieces 
Will drop before your eyes in less than no time. 
Done, then, I shall depend on you ; but mind, 
You'll be in danger if the secret 'scapes. [Exit. 

[Elise paces the floor uneasily; she touches something 
with her foot, and stooping, raises a tiny silver 
medal of the Sacred Heart.] 

Elise. Ha! 'tis a medal which Hermine has dropped: 
I'll take it to her. 

[Goes toward door and returns.] 
No, 'tis too late now ; 
The child is fast asleep ; I'll wait till morning. 

[She gazes on the medal with agitation.] 
Is it temptation ? Why can I not pray ? — 
That woman Murray's dark and deep ; and she 
My lady did belie, for never guilt 



70 Hermine 

Looked from that face or burrowed in that heart. 

[She walks the floor with hands clasped.] 
What have I done? A hundred pounds! — 'tis 

scarce 
A moment since the thought gave me a world 
Of joy [Rolling of thunder.] and now remorse 

afflicts my soul 
And tells me 'tis a crime that I'm engaged to. 
[Pauses: working of passion — then with scorn.] 
A hundred pounds? If this before the act 
What sorrow will be mine when I have done it ? 

[Kissing the medal.] 
God pardon me for such a sinful thought! 
I'll after her and tell her that her bribe 
Though 'twere a hundred millions shall not tempt 

me. 

Scene III. Wreck of the Vessel. 

Same scene. Noise of thunder and rain. Enter Elise, 
followed by Murray in anger. 

Murray. You confounded fool: you've changed your 
mind already. 

A loud voice within. The ship is on the reefs ! 

[Elise rushes out, followed by Murray. Cries and 
groans. Loud voices above the din and confusion.] 

Voice. She's sprung a leak ! 

Another voice. Man the pumps. 

[Passing from left to right of men and women. Fire 
appears. Heavy rain, wind, thunder and light- 
ning.] 



Hermine 71 

Voice. My God, the ship's on fire ! 

Woman's voice. This way, mother; Heaven protect us! 

Deep commanding! voice within. All hands on deck! 

Man the boats! 
Murray. [Crossing with babe in arms.] I've got her 

safe, after all. 
Woman. [Crossing.] Don't leave me here to perish. 
Voices. God have mercy on us! O Lord, help us! 
Lady Francesca. [Crossing.] Hermine, my child ! 
[Others following. Lurid light all the time. Storm 

continues. Voices in the distance.] 

Curtain. 

Scene III. Hospital. 

Lady Francesca on couch, Left center. Sister of Charity 
and Elise seated near a table, Right. 

Elise. O Sister, that my lady would awake 
From this long, terrible delirium! 
Better perhaps if death had taken her 
With Anna in the horrors of that night. 

Sister. [Looking tenderly upon Lady Francesca.] Her 
first soft sleep, they say, these eighteen days — 
A restful slumber : and the pain that marked 
Her brow hath yielded to a tranquil smile ; 
A messenger, I do believe, that comes 
To tell us reason hath resumed her throne. 

Elise. God grant it, Sister! But alas! how break 
To her the fearful news ? Hermine — Hermine ! 
Her loss will kill her. 

Sister. Let us place our trust 



72 Hermine 

In Him who pitieth the sparrow's fall — 
Who will not break the bruised reed nor quench 
The smoking flax. And she, whose sorrow topped 
All other human woe, will hear our prayer, 
And heavenly oil into this bleeding heart 
Will pour, and work a miracle of comfort. 

Elise. Alas! the doctor said but yesterday 

He feared the awakening to her fatal grief. 

Sister. But thou believ'st that Murray has the child ? 
Dost think that in the rage of wind and wave 
She 'scaped unhurt? 

Elise. Yea, when we struck she stood 

Beside me in high anger ; at the shock 
She darted toward the boats, which in a trice 
Were lowered ; our brave sailors fought with death 
In every shape ; the tempest raged, and billows 
As high as mountains beat upon the ship. 
The struggling passengers, with prayers to God, 
Pressed madly to its sides ; when lo ! the flames 
Burst through the hold. I reached my lady's 

cabin ; 
The smoke was blinding ; she was groping round 
And shrieking for Hermine. She caught me: 

"Help- 
Help Anna," quick she said, "she's wounded." 

Then, 
Like one insane, she fled toward the boats, 
Calling Hermine. One of our noble crew 
Seized her within his stalwart arms and bore 
Her safe away. He said she swooned, and so 
Was lowered to the life-boat. As she fled 



Hermine 73 

I turned to Anna ; on the floor she lay, 
Blood gushing from her head and mouth; I tried 
To lift her, calling loud for help. "No — no!" 
She gasped; "I'm dying — Murray snatched — the 

babe — 
And threw me down. — Pray God — for — me: — I 

die." 
Then "Jesus — Mary — " faint I heard, and life 
Had passed away. I knew no more until 
I wakened 'mid the heaving waves, and saw 
The lurid flames like scarlet mantle wrap 
The noble vessel. 

Sister. And you heard no more 

Of Murray or the child ? 

Elise. The tempest tore 

The boats asunder ; one they feared was lost. 
The cold rain poured upon us till we reached 
The land. We wrapped the lady as we could, 
But vain our efforts — 

Lady Francesca. [Feebly.] Anna — com'st thou not? 
[Sister Marie approaches the bedside.] 
Where am I, Anna? Bring Hermine, my child. 

[Rises up on her elbow, but falls back on the pillow.] 
[To Elise.] Thou art not Anna: call my maid; 

perchance 
She's still on deck with baby ; call her — say 
I would arise at once. I've slept full late. 

[Passes her hand across her brow.] 
Beseech you, pardon me ; I know you now. 

Elise. [Tenderly.] I go, madam. [Aside to Sister.] 
She is herself again. 



74 Hermine 

It breaks my heart ; I cannot speak to her. 
I'd go the wide world o'er if I could bring 
Her child once more to meet those mournful eyes. 
Sister. Mother of Mercy, touch my lips with healing! 

[Sister Marie kneels by the bed.] 
Lady Francesca. Une Soeur de Charite? Suis-je done 
malade? 
Pardonnez, je vous prie! Who art thou — tell? 
Thou com'st a vision from the beauteous past — 
From Heaven, or from my own fair Italy. 
I see her flowery vales and crested hills, 
Her brooks and grass-fringed, crystal lakes; the 

breath 
Of my own Apennines floats o'er my brow ; 
Once more a child, sweet chimes of Convent bells 
Call me to prayer. Alas! I cannot pray; 
I have forsaken God, and now He leaves me. 
Sister. Lady, be calm, I pray you ; you are ill — 

[Touches a bell.] 
Too ill to speak ; rest here in peace and trust 
Beneath the mantle of our Virgin Mother. 

[Lady Francesca falls back with eyes closed.] 
Enter servant. 
Bid Sister play some soft and soothing air ; 

[Exit servant. 
And you [To Elise.] stay by her. [Harp music] 
Sister. [Aside, walking to right.] Spite of years of 
change 
And this religious habit, still she knows me. 
My childhood's love and guide in beauteous paths: 
How little thought I when I left for France 



Hermine 75 

That I should be the chosen ! She so pure, 

So high above me, so angelic, I 

In gazing on her dreamed myself in Heaven. 

And now — unless in wild delirium 

Her lips spake treason 'gainst her soul's fair life, 

All faith and hope have left her. O the grief 

That fatal marriage wrought ! But prayer shall win 

The victory yet, and bring Francesca back 

To all the purity and grace of youth. 

Scene IV. The Same. 

Enter Sister Marie and Elise, Right. 

Elise. And you have told my lady all ? The death 
Of gentle Anna and Dame Murray's theft 
Of sweet Hermine ? Poor lady ! broken heart ! 
How did she bear it ? 

Sister Marie. First, in speechless sorrow, 

Awe-stricken silence, statue-like despair : 
I paused, and knelt affrighted by her side ; 
Then in a voice unnatural she whispered, 
"Lead to the chapel — let my heart break there." 
I led her tottering steps to the altar's foot, 
And there unmoved, my arms around her, long 
She knelt, silent as death ; then, gentle sobs 
And moans broke forth, and, prostrate on the floor, 
Grief, like a mutinous torrent, overwhelmed her. 
Vain strove I to upraise her till the storm 
Had died ; then, calm and pale, she took my arm 
And, with a moan like that from dying lips, 
She said: "This bitter chalice must I drink? 
My God, Thy justice is most terrible!" 



76 Hermine 

Elise. Thank God, she knows the worst! The Sacred 
Heart 
Is merciful and will sustain her weakness. 

Enter Lady Francesca in background, leaning on a 
maid. 
And, Sister, now a strange surprise for you; 
But now I left the parlor where a sailor 
From off the wreck hath sought us out. He saw 
Dame Murray and Hermine — 

Lady Francesca. [Approaching.] Great God! Her- 
mine? 
What said'st thou, girl? 

Sister Marie. My lady, sit thee down 

And calm thee, and Elise shall tell thee all. 
Be strong, Francesca. 

Lady Francesca. {With an impatient gesture^ Say, 
Elise, at once, 
What thou hast heard of my dear lost Hermine. 

Elise. Lady, a sailor of our crew — of those 

Who put forth in the first ill-fated boat — 
Ill-fated, as we thought, — just left the door; 
He learned that we were passengers, and came 
To tell the happy Providence which saved 
The crowded souls within the frail boat tossed. 
Far o'er the waves toward night of that sad day 
A vessel bound for Cuba sighted them 
And bearing down upon them rescued all. 

Lady Francesca. O gracious God, I thank Thee ! And 
Hermine ? 

Elise. The child was in the boat, he said. An old 
And gray-haired woman bore her in her arms, 



H ermine 77 

Who called herself its granddame, tore her hair 
And cried most piteously because the child 
Lay in a trance like death the whole day long. 

Lady Francesca. O Mary, sorrowful Mother, guard 
my child ! 

Elise. 'Twas that wretch Murray in disguise, I cried. 
And then I told the tale of crime you know. 
He answered horror-struck: "We touched the 

port 
At daybreak ; I myself in pure compassion 
Did lend my aid to her you Murray call ; 
Ere night, upon a vessel bound for England 
I saw her safely stowed — the pretty child 
Still sleeping in its deathlike trance. 

[Lady Francesca moans and falls back in her chair.] 
'Twas wont, 
She said, from birth to have strange fainting fits, — 
'Twould soon be well ; and so with many thanks 
She hastened to her berth." And this is all, 
Dear lady, for the vessel sailed that night 
For England. [Lady Francesca weeps. ~\ 

Sister. [Taking Lady Francesco's hand.] But Her- 
mine still lives, dear friend; 
And fail not hope, for yet the Heart Divine 
Shall place her in her mother's arms. Weep not, 
Dear lady, joy shall send its rays, and scatter 
These heavy clouds ere many days are past. 

Lady Francesca. [Rising.] Sweet Sister, I must back 
to Scotland ; beg 
Upon my knees, if need be, of my cruel foe — 
Alas! my husband's mother — for my child. 



78 Hermine 

My mother-love shall brook her proud contempt, 
The scorn of her base minions, anything, 
To clasp Hermine once more unto my breast. 
Sister. Lady, thou'rt yet too weak ; thou canst not go 
This weary journey; rest in peace awhile. 
'Twere best we learned if Murray touched the 

shore 
Of Scotland ere thou turn thy steps abroad. 
I know a trusty man, who, two days hence, 
Sails for the continent. Let him make search, 
And if Hermine within thy castle bides, 
Thyself, then stronger grown, may'st seek her 

there. 
Lady Francesca. Thy counsel always prudent is and 

wise. 
O would that I might fly on angel's wings 
And snatch my child from out those traitor arms! 

Elise. Lady, this holy mission must be mine ; 

Love shall give wings ; and soon on Scottish strand, 
Disguised, Til hie to the castle; offer there 
My services for any menial part — 

Lady Francesca. But Murray's dangerous eyes will 
soon detect 
'Neath any guise thy presence. Hast forgot 
That last wild scene, and Anna's death-blow dealt 
By Murray's hand ? I fear the worst for thee, 
For her suspicion roused, thou know'st she's reck- 
less. 
Elise. But my disguise shall be so perfect — none, — 
Even you, my lady, shall not pierce its folds; 



H ermine 79 

My voice an aged tremor, and a limp 

[Suiting the action to the word.] 
Shall be an added grace. Fear not for me. 
Besides, this Murray serves not at the castle ; 
Perchance I shall not meet her wicked face. 
Be sure that God will ope to me a path ; 
A few month's absence and I shall return, 
Bearing your treasure in my joyful arms. 

Sister. An inspiration from on high, Elise ; 

Nay, lady, say no more, for God will bless 
Her generous zeal ; her outfit we will haste ; 
A kind friend ample means will furnish us, 
And ere a week Elise shall ride the sea. 

Lady Francesca. [Falling back wearied in her chair.] 
God bless you both for all your gentle comfort : 
So helpless am I, I perforce must yield ; 
But while I kneel within the altar's shade 
In humble prayer, thou, Elise, shalt go 
'Neath shade of angel's wings and seek my lost, 
My soul's life, sweet Hermine. The Sacred Heart 
Be with thee night and day! 

Elise. [Kneeling by her side.] And touch thy heart, 
Thy sad, crushed heart, with drops of heavenly 
balm! 

Curtain. 

Act II. Scene I. Scotland — Castle of 

Brackenburn. 

Lady Anne Brackenburn alone — seated. 

Lady Anne. Strange Murray comes not with the child: 

long since 



80 Hermine 

The ship which was to bear her home hath an- 
chored, 
And here I, miserable, wait her pleasure. 
My precious pet, Hermine ! Each day a month 
Hath been since her sweet face was torn from me ; 
Her pretty, tender ways, her lively pranks, 
The morning kiss of those rose-laughing lips — 
Her wise conceits, her solemn, gray-haired ques- 
tions ; 
Each hour my soul seeks her in agony, 
My dead boy's child ; and she, that foreign girl, 
Must drag her from her lordly home, to waste 
Her gentle life in penury and toil. 
How fierce the hate that burns within my heart 
For her and all her set, with holy water, 
Beads, and what not of idle mummeries ! 

[Paces the room in excitement.] 
Low-born, too, howsoe'er her culture rich 
Hath come, by nature or by studious arts 
And long society with my dear son. 
I welcomed her with hate, and she hath felt 
Its sting each hour through these slow-rolling 

years, 
Since first Francesca, wily peasant, set 
Her treacherous foot within our castle gates. 

[She pauses — play of passion.] 
And hate and joy fought madly which should win 
The battle in my heart when those broad gates 
Forever closed against her; — but, my heart! 
She conquered when she bore away Hermine. 
[Pauses — a look of agony in her face.] 



Hermine 8t 

A mortal pang — a wild presentiment 

Hath seized my spirit — what if Murray — no, 

I dare not think — 

Enter Jeannette with newspapers. 
Jeannette. Your ladyship, the journals. 

[Lady Anne seizes them — puts on her glasses.] 
Lady Anne. My hand is tremulous — I cannot see — 

Jeannette, read quickly what thou know'st I crave. 
Jeannette. [Examines one.] Naught of the packet 
Majesty in this, 
My lady; [Opens another.] nor hath this a word 

of it ; 
Ah! [Reading a third.] this, the latest, says — 

[Pauses.] 
Lady Anne. [Seizing her arm.] Read, girl; what 

says it? 
Jeannette. The packet Majesty arrived last night 
At Liverpool — rough voyage — passengers 
All safe. [Reading the list.] 
Lady Anne. [Breathlessly.] And what of Murray and 

Hermine? 
Jeannette. Her name I read not on the list; three 
ladies, 
A Mrs. Stanhope, widow with two children ; 
Madame la Ponte and nieces ; Mrs. Moore 
With infant girl, are all. 
Lady Anne. [Walking nervously.] O grief on grief! 
Jeannette. [Aside.] She reaps the bitter fruit of her 

own sowing. 
Lady Anne. [In grief.] No more, Jeannette? 



82 Hermine 

Jeannette. A merchant's packet, Freedom, 

From foreign port — from Cuba — naught to us. 
Lady Anne. But read, Jeannette! 

Jeannette. [Slowly.] No passengers are named 

Save crew, two gentlemen with families, 
An orphan girl beneath the captain's care, 
And, yes — Senora Angelo with grandchild. 
Lady Anne. [Tearing off wrapper from an old paper.] 

And what is this ? A scrawling hand. 
Jeannette. [Taking paper.] Lady, 

It is a month old paper. [Examines it.] Ah! but 

here 
A passage marked with red. 
Lady Anne. Read, read, Jeannette. 
Jeannette. [Reads.] A vessel wrecked — the Fortunate 
— off Charleston. 
Heart-rending scenes — some rescued from the 

waves ; 
A Scottish lady injured — and her maid 
And child of four years perished in the flames. 
Lady Anne. Great God! the name, the name, Jean- 
nette: is't she? 
Jeannette. The Lady Brackenburn, her child Her- 
mine — 
The lady's state is critical — 
Lady Anne. [Waving her hand imperiously .] No 

more — 
No more of her. Would God that she had 

drowned 
Or burned, so Alfred's child were spared! Would 
Heaven 



Hermine 83 

My boy had never seen her face! — Hermine — 

[Weeping.] 
Hermine — and burned to death — O frightful 
fate! 

Enter Meg, a servant, trying to push back an old 
woman — Elise disguised. 

Meg. Stay out here, will you, till I tell my lady? 

Ellen. [Holding her back.] Coom back, canna ye have 
mair sense than this? 

Elise. I'll trust nayther av yiz, so I won't. Sure 

I can plade my own cause, an' what's more I'll 
do it. Yiz are a pair av desaivers, an' ye 
wouldn't have let me lay eyes upon me lady 
at all, if yiz could help it. 

Lady Anne. Who is this rude and forward stranger, 
girls ? 

Meg. I beg your pardon, my lady, but we couldn't keep 
her out ; will you, nill you, she'd come in. 

Elise. [Kneeling and wringing her hands.] Sure, me 
lady, I'm a lone ould woman an' an orphan ; 
an' I thrun myself upon yer mercy for the bit 
an' the sup, if ye'll give it to me for me work. 
The world's a mighty desateful world an' — 

Lady Anne. [Severely to Meg and Ellen.] Your con- 
duct's strange to let this creature in. 
The time is most inopportune for this. 

E\ise. [Pleadingly.] Arrah now, yer highness, don't 
be afther sendin' me away ; an' don't be look- 
in' at me so scornful-like. Sure an' I can do 
a dale av work, an' all for the crust an' a 
little corner av sthraw to slape on. 



84 Herminc 

Lady Anne. [Mildly.] Woman, I do not need your 
services ; 
My days are full of grief ; I beg you, leave me. 

Elise. Mebbe I could help to cheer your grief; I can 
tell many's the foine story av the ould coun- 
thry, an' I've been to Ameriky an' I know a 
hape about it. 

Lady Anne. [Starting.] America! the word is full of 
woe 
To me. — Thou'rt old ; what canst thou do, good 
woman ? 

Elise. I can do more'n I look; I can make an omelet 
or a weddin' cake as aisy as I can make a bed 
or a kaliker wrapper; an' I'm not above fadin' 
the chickens or takin' care av the pigs, ma'am, 
plaze yer majesty. An' sure an' I knows best 
av all how to mind the childher, an' sing them 
the nursery tales — Ould Mother Hubbard, 
an' The Cow ran — 

Lady Anne. [Wearily.] Enough of your accomplish- 
ments, good woman ; 
Take her away, Jeannette; [To Elise.] go with 

her; do 
As she shall order. [Exeunt Meg and Ellen. 

Elise. Sure an' my lady, I thank yiz a thousand times, 
so I do. May the Heavens above be yer bed, 
and [Very loud.] the bed av yer childher 
and yer grandchildher. 

[Jeannette pulls her away.] 

Lady Anne. Her words have thrust new daggers in my 
heart. 



Hermine 85 

Dead — dead? [Voice broken.] No more to see 

her lovely face? 
Hermine — ah, nevermore on earth, my darling! 

[Weeps.] 

Curtain. 

Scene II. The Same. 

Elise dusting the room and limping heavily. 

Elise. A week I've been in Brackenburn, a week 
Of years — a hundred years of torturing doubts. 
The house is full of grief for fair Hermine. 
My lady walks the floor and beats her breast, 
While groans and self-upbraidings soothe my ear, 
The tokens of her late remorse. She thinks 
Hermine fell victim to the flames ; and I — 
I dare not tell her all I know. Alas ! 
What shall I do ? I know not what to do : 
Murray not here — she sailed a week or more 
Before I started. — William thinks his mistress 
Gave her a thousand pounds to do the deed — 
Now she may keep the child in payment, too. 
May Heaven throw swiftly light upon my path! 
[Sees newspapers — raises one.] 
Enter Jeannette. 
Jeannette. Ah ! — I am seeking for those papers, please ; 

The foreign one that told us of the wreck. 
Elise. Sure an' I'll be eternally obleeged to ye if ye'll 
let me rade it now, like a bonnie lass that ye 
are. 
[Jeannette hands her one, pointing to the passage.] 



86 Hermine 

Elise. [Putting on her glasses and reading under 
them.'] Ah! the purty child — burned to 
death ! Och, it's enough to break a heart av 
stone. And Murray — the woman yiz all 
tould me about — was she dhrownded or what ? 
Jeannttte. We heard naught else — nor madam cares to 
hear 
Since her sweet grandchild, dear Hermine, is dead. 
Elise. [Indignantly.] In the name av the houly 
Hivens, wasn't the child's mother, Lady Fran- 
cesca, somethin' to the ould lady? Wasn't 
she her daughter? 
Jeannette. My lady never loved her — made her life 
All bitterness, a daily martyrdom. 
When young Lord Alfred died, his mother's mind 
Was bent on driving her from home and Scotland, 
And taking for her own the child Hermine. 
But I must go — my lady waits for me. [Exit. 
[Elise takes up another paper — looks over it nervously.] 
Elise. Ha! Cuba — merchant's packet, Freedom named; 
My life — it sailed that very night — I tremble : 
Laden — that matters not — few passengers — 
The crew — two gentlemen with families — 
An orphan girl beneath the captain's care — 

[Reads slowly and with emphasis.] 
Enter Meg — listens. 
Senora Angelo — with grandchild. — Angelo? 
'Tis Murray ; so the sailor spoke — her grandchild : 
Where is she now? Why waits she? What de- 
signs 
Upon the innocent child? I must away 



Hermine 87 

Or it will be too late. I will to the port 
Tonight and seek her. [Throws down her cane.] 

There is some foul play, 
But I will thwart her. 

[Meg makes a noise. Elise picks up her cane and limps 
out.] 

Meg. [Coming forward.] I told them she wasn't 
she, — I knew she was somebody else. Her 
brogue didn't deceive me, nor her gray wig. 
Lame, indeed! Her legs are as lively as a 
young hare's, and she threw her cane down 
with a vengeance. Something's up, I can tell 
you; and she knows more'n she'll tell. I'll 
bet you a mug of ale, Meg Burns, that she's 
seen young mistress. I'm going to pump her. 
Let's see the paper, anyway. [Elise returns.] 
[Aside.] Here she comes back again. 

[Approaching her.] 
Good-morning, granny; you look flustered. 

Elise. Arrah, honey, did ye see an ould paper here? I 
want it — for — to — light the fire. It's could 
in my room. 

Meg. [Laughing.] Cold in June? O granny, that's 
a whopper. Come now, tell me, granny; 
we're sworn friends, you know, ever since 
you cried so that night I told you about young 
missus. Look here ! whose long black curl is 
this? [Pulling one out from under Elise 's 
cap.] You're no old woman, at all. I know 
that; so now, be honest. [Lowering her 
voice.] Do you think this Senery Angelo 



88 Hermine 

[Pointing to the name.] is Murray? Was 
Murray saved, anyway? 

Elise. [Laughing and embarrassed.] Well, did iver 
anyone hear the likes av that? Murray, in- 
dade! What do I know about Murray or 
Senery Angelo ? 

Meg. Well, granny, open confession is good for the 
soul, and I'll have to confess my knavery. I 
was coming in to wind up the clock, when I 
overheard you in your dramatic rehearsal, and 
stood eavesdropping. But I don't repent ; 
and I'll go to China with you if you think 
that child is living and we can find it. [Elise 
looks at Meg searchingly and turns away; 
Meg follows her.] And what's more, granny, 
I'll vow and swear to keep your secret. 
Come now, tell me. Ill luck, here's madam. 

[Exit Meg hastily. Elise remains, makes a low cour- 
tesy, and turns to go.] 

Lady Anne. [Seating herself.] Didst ever have a child, 
grandma ? 

Elise. Sorra a one, yer ladyship, but I loved one wanst 
just as much as if she was my own. 

Lady Anne. And did she die while yet a pretty child? 

Elise. That's the grievous sorrow av my soul, yer lady- 
ship, for I niver knowed what became av her ; 
I saw her one night swate and playful, and I 
singing all my ould songs for her, and — woe 
to my poor heart! — I niver clapped eyes on 
her again. [Wipes her eyes with her apron.] 



Hermine 89 

Lady Anne. [Starting.] What happened, grandma? 

Was she drowned or burned ? 
Elise. No, lady, sure I don't know what — I hard — I 
tried to larn — but nothin' sartain. I alius 
thought a wild, bad woman stole her from her 
mother's arms. 
Lady Anne. Woman, what mean you? Did you 
know — [Aside.] 
Conscience at every moment plays the traitor: 
I think my reason will its sceptre yield. 
[To Elise.] And could you never find your pretty 
baby? 
Elise. Sure an' if I knowed where to go I'd hunt the 
world ; but I haven't the manes an' it ud cost 
a hape. 
Lady Anne. But what could you, aged and decrepid, 

do? 
Elise. Och, I don't know, lady ; but the Lord is a light 
to the blind an' a foot to the lame, so the 
Holy Book says ; an' His Heart is so tendher 
an' Win' I think He'd help me. Sure I'd 
start tomorrow on my thravels in His name 
and niver fear. 
[Lady Anne goes to her escritoire and writes.] 
Lady Anne. Here, granny, in His name I give you this. 
Five hundred pounds will bear you on your way, 
And at your need return. My means shall be 
At your command until your lost is found. 
Elise. [Looking dumfounded at check and rubbing 
her eyes.] Sure my eyes aren't mates, lady, an' 
I've grown hard av hearing. Is this the sacred 



90 Hermine 

thruth? [Kissing Lady Anne's hand.] May 

God bless your ladyship, an' rain joys on you 

an' all you love ! 
Lady Anne. No thanks. [Waving her hand to Elise, 

who limps out, Lady Anne looking after her.] 
In aiding you to seek your child, 
The Lord perchance will pardon me my guilt, 
And let me meet my lost Hermine in Heaven. 

Scene III. London — An Inn. 
Dame Murray seated, valise near; takes off hat. 

Murray. Confound my bad luck ! An old woman and 
a young one have been dogging my steps all 
day; but I've dodged them at last, and to- 
night, instead of being Sefiora Angelo, I'll be 
Madame la Grange in my new quarters. I 
thought I was safe in London for a month or 
so. But I haven't dared go to see the child 
today. They're two spies as sure as my 
name's Murray. They came to the inn this 
morning and took breakfast, and I seemed to 
have a fascination for them. I'm well dis- 
guised: I don't see how anyone could detect 
me in this trim; — I'm afraid I'm in for it. 
If that maid told anyone I killed her — I 
didn't mean to give her such a violent blow, 
but she wouldn't give me the child. Ugh! 
her blood was all over the child's dress. I'll 
pack my traps and get off as soon as possible 
to Austria to Dick, where I'll be safe. 



Hermine 91 

[Looking off the stage, right.] Heavens and 
earth ! the wretches — here they are ! 
Enter Elise and Meg, disguised. 

Elise. [Low voice.] Now, Meg, don't be afraid; let 
us confront the beast. 

Meg. Never fear me, I'll give her pepper sauce. 

[Murray, with valise, attempts to leave the room; Elise 
takes her by the right shoulder, and Meg goes to 
the other side, assuming a threatening attitude.] 

Elise. Sure we've a little business with you, Mrs. la 
Grange, alias Angelo, alias Murray. We 
happens to know ye stole a child, an' that 
ye're consailing it for nefarious purposes. 

Murray. [Aside — wrenching herself away from them.] 
Ha! it's that miserable stewardess. 

Elise. An' we have an official here with a report drawn 
up for yer execution ef ye don't give up the 
child at wanst. 

Murray. [With foreign accent.] Mine goot womans, 
you must pe dhreaming. I not know vats 
you mean; I pelongs to — to Normandy, vere 
my fameely resides. 

Meg. [Coolly.] And there's another accusation against 
you, Mrs. la Grange, alias Angelo, alias 
Murray: you knocked down Anna, Lady 
Brackenburn's maid, and killed her — [Mur- 
ray starts.] while you were dragging the 
child from her arms, and you'll hang for that, 
I'll bet you. [Meg plants herself at the door.] 

Murray. [Aside.] Meg Burns, as I live. I sent the 
paper that said the child was drowned, but 



92 Hermine 

it's no go. [Looking at the door.] Ill have 
to stand the fire. [To Meg, defiantly.'] It's 
all a lie — a foul slander; [Elise takes hold of 
her.] let me go or I'll call for help. 

Meg. Do, Peggy Murray, and you'll be lodged in jail 
tonight. You might as well make an expose, 
and let the cat out of the bag at once. 

Murray. You're a pair of villains; unhand me, I tell 
you. 

Elise. Arrah, now, be quiet and do as we bid you, and 
we'll let you off. Go and get Lady Bracken- 
burn's child an' give it to us immajiately. 

Murray. [Sullenly.] I haven't got the child. 

Meg. Peg Murray, Hermine is in London ; and if you 
don't stir your stumps and come with us in 
the carriage that's outside the door, go 
straight to the spot where you've hid the child, 
and hand her over to us at short notice, I'll 
blab all your secrets to the public ear before 
daylight. [Meg and Elise consult.] 

Murray. Confusion seize them! I guess I'll hang any- 
way — money under false pretences — child- 
stealing — and killing — enough for one charge. 
But I'll have to go with them — if my wits 
can't deliver me. 

Meg. Come, Murray, there's no time to lose. 

[Exeunt, Meg and Elise holding Murray.] 

Scene IV. A Private Residence in Baltimore. 
A library. Lady Francesca reclining on a lounge: her 



Hermine 93 

two young pupils, Maud and Alice Wellman, 
seated near. Charts and globes around. Desk at 
left. 
Lady Francesca. Your lessons all are perfect, children 
dear; 
Now roll the globe within the library, 
And place the charts on papa's desk that he 
This eve may test your knowledge of the kings 
Of France and England. Alice dear may go 
And practice. 
Alice. That sweet song, madame, you gave me? 
I'm sure I almost know one verse already. 

[Sings.] 
Lady Francesca. That's fairly sung; but now an hour 
devote 
To practice of the scales and exercises. 
Alice. Oh, madame, don't you think they're hard and 

horrid ? 
Lady Francesca. But Alice must please papa ; and some 
day 
These little fingers will fly o'er the keys 
Like snowy birds, and give us harmonies 
Of wondrous masters who have tranced the 

world — 
Who make us weep, and bear our souls to Heaven 
Alice. Oh, madame, shall I ever play like that? 
I'll practice, sure, with all my heart and hands, 
And count — play soft and loud — adagio, presto — 
Maud. [Playfully.] Then presto, Alice, go and play 
like Orpheus, 



94 Hermine 

And charm the trees and stones with your sweet 

sounds, 
For madame promised me to read this morn 
My lines on mamma's birthday. 
Alice. [Kisses Lady Francesca and dances out.] Au 

revoirl 
Lady Francesca. [To Maud, who hands her a sheet of 
paper.] Finished so soon, my child? [Reads.] 
Your fiilial love 
Has urged your gentle pen — has made your task 
Full sweet, and — crowned it with complete suc- 
cess. 
Maud. [Bashfully.] And do you truly like my verses, 

madam ? 
Lady Francesca. They are, indeed, most sweet and 
touching, Maud. 
And now a fair, pure copy for mamma. 
Sit at my desk, and I will scan your progress. 

[Bell rings.] 
Enter Sister Marie. Lady Francesca, assisted by Maud, 

arises with difficulty and embraces her. 
Sister. Thou dost not gain in strength, Francesca dear ; 

Thy paleness grows. 
Lady Francesca. 'Tis nature, Sister mine; 

The rose forsook my cheek when I forsook 
The sun and balmy breeze of Italy. 
[Impatiently.] But talk we of the news of yester- 
day: 
Hope and Despair take hands to torture me. 

[Maud seats herself at desk and writes.] 
Sister. Nav, God is watching o'er the event, and soon 



Hermine 95 

Will right thy wrongs. And hath He not inspired 
The Lady Brackenburn herself to aid 
Thy cause unknowing ? 

Lady Francesca. O Marie, 'tis hard — 

'Tis bitter that her gold must minister 
To me or aught of mine. Oh, if thou knew'st 
The abysses of her malice, or the depth 
Of my unhallowed wishes for revenge ! 

Sister. Francesca, sister mine, I fear me much 
This unforgiving heart of thine delays 
The opening of the gate of happiness 
To thee. "Forgive and thou shalt be forgiven!" 
That is the teaching of the Sacred Heart. 

Lady Francesca. But, Sister, you must hear the sad 
contents 
Of that ill-omened letter. Just a month — 
A month agone, Elise, elate with hope, 
Had gone to seek out Murray — met her ; then, 
When I was holding out my hands to clasp 
My child once more, Fate dashes to the ground 
My cup of joy and hands me one of gall. 

[Maud rises timidly, her task finished. Lady Francesca 
holds out her hand for the paper.] 

Maud. Excuse me, madam ; I do hope 'twill please you. 

[Lady Francesca looks over paper with a pleased smile, 
and hands it to Sister Marie.] 

Sister. Ah, Maud, so early you begin to woo 

The gentle Muses? [Reads.] 'Tis a tribute fair 
From loving daughter to a worthy mother. 

Maud. Thanks, dearest Sister, for your words of 
praise, 



96 Hermine 

Which all return, as you well know, to madam. 

Lady Francesca. And now, Maud, bring the letter 
from my desk, 
And read once more its hope-destroying message. 

Maud. [Reads.] My honored Lady: When last I 
wrote Meg and I had traced Murray to Lon- 
don and breakfasted with her. Well, we 
dogged her steps all day, hoping she might 
go to the haunt where the child is concealed. 
That she suspected us for spies is evident from 
her going to another inn that evening after 
artfully dodging us several times. We pro- 
cured a carriage on which were mounted two 
strong men with loaded pistols, and proceeded 
to confront her. She stormed and denied all 
knowledge of the child, but finally consented 
to our demands. She gave us an address out- 
side of the city, where, she said, the child was, 
and entered the carriage with us. We drove 
a few miles, and — well, we knew no more un- 
til we found ourselves in a room at the inn in 
bed, our disguises off, and the maid looking 
at us in pity and surprise. The men had 
told her that on opening the door of the car- 
riage they found no Murray, but two women 
in a state of unconsciousness, under a power- 
ful opiate which she had thrown upon us, 
from which we did not recover for two days. 
We have reason to believe she has fled to Aus- 
tria, but possibly she may be in France. With 
Lady Brackenburn's money I have employed 



H ermine 97 

an Austrian detective who has an interest 
with the highest officials in that country. We 
shall leave for Paris tomorrow — Meg knows 
how to "parley-vous" enough for us. We 
shall pursue her if it takes us years. Do not 
fear, and above all pray for our success. — 
Elise. 

Lady Francesca. O could I fly to aid Elise ! But here, 
Pinned to the stake I lie, alas ! like martyr. 
A walk amid the garden paths with Maud, 
And I faint here for hours ; and worse, Marie, 
The doctor fears my spine cannot be cured. 

Sister. Francesca, there is naught for thee but patience ; 
And "patience is the soul of peace," as says 
Some English poet; trust in hope and prayer, 
Which, like two eagles, strong, clear-eyed, mount 

up 
To Heaven's gates, and come back laden down 
With precious remedies for all our ills. 

Lady Francesca. O wretched mother! doomed to days 
and nights 
Of helpless, hopeless anguish; teaching here 
Beneath another's roof his happy children, 
The while my own a victim is and slave ; 
Most horrible! a slave to such a woman. 

Sister. Dear friend, if thou would'st lay thy wounded 
heart 
Against the Heart Divine — once more approach 
The Holy Table, where we knelt so oft 
Together in Fiesole at prayer — 



98 Hermine 

Lady Francesca. [Interrupting.] What would'st thou 
have me do, my Sister? Those 
Were happy days of innocence; — but now — 
Receive the Lamb of God — the Crucified, 
Who said "Forgive them, Father!" on the cross 
For those who murdered Him ? I pray, and yet 
My heart stays hard as veined marble ; weep 
Hot tears of agony as I behold 
Thee and thy peers in purity and love 
Approach the fount of love ; yet I am fixed 
In hate unalterable ; nor can change 
Till she — the one that wrought this world of evil, 
Till she hath plucked with her repentant hands 
The venomed shafts she plunged into my bosom, 
Or God hath humbled her beneath my feet. 

[Falls on lounge.] 
Sister. [Aside.] 'Tis vain: I might as well strive to 
appease 
The fury of the north winds rushing mad 
Upon their course. O Hatred ! hand in hand 
Thou stalk'st with thy wild brethren, dark Re- 
venge 
And flame-eyed Anger and blood-sprinkled Mur- 
der. 
That thou, relentless monster, should'st lay siege 
To heart so loving, gentle as Francesca's ! 
[To Lady Francesca.] And now a slighter sorrow, 

dearest friend, 
I have to tell — that my unworthy self, 
Who have some little comfort been, perchance, 
To thee, have orders to depart at once 



Hermine 99 

For our dear mother-house in France. 

Lady Francesca. [Rising.] My Sister, 

I am betrothed to Sorrow : must we part ? 

Sister. It is the will of God, Francesca. Ways 
Are His we cannot fathom — deep as ocean, 
High as the heavens. Within the Sacred Heart 
Meet we shall daily ; but my faith is strong 
That one day 'neath the skies of France we'll 

meet: 
Joy shall embrace thee, and thou'lt be at peace 
With earth and Heaven. 

Lady Francesca. Sweet Sister, may thy words 

Prophetic be — and angels guard thy ways ! 

Act III. 
Scene I. A Dark, Ill-Furnished Room. 
Hermine seated, dressed in ragged garments. 

Hermine. How lonely am I here, shut up all day! 
No one to play with me or talk: alone 
In this dark room — the doors and windows locked, 
And not a ray of golden sunlight comes 
To cheer me through the long, long, weary hours. 
[Rising.] It is so dark I'll light the candle now. 
No little girl on earth, I do believe, 
Is half so sad : and just this little loaf 
And mug of water for my whole day's food : 
I am so hungry sometimes I half wish 
The chubby mice that play around my feet 
Were good for eating ; but, poor little things, 
I'd rather play with them than kill them off. 



ioo Hermine 



But [Frightened.] I must practise that new step 

before 
Grandma comes back, or she will scold and beat 

me. 
My arm — and shoulder [Exposing it.] have been 

black and blue 
These three days since she beat me last. 
[Practicing.] O dear! I cannot do it right, I 

know; 
[Takes five or six steps, with perplexed face.] 
No, that's not it — let's try again; 

[A few more steps.] 

I can't — [Pouting.] 
It's no use trying, and I'd rather sing. [Sings.] 
Enter Dame Murray. 

Murray. You lazy, idle child! [Shaking her.] here 
singing instead of practising your dancing — 
and the candle lit in broad daylight, too. Go 
and get me the strap this minute. 

Hermine. O grandma, don't beat me again; I'll prac- 
tise. [Begins to dance.] 

Murray. [Boxing her ear.] Well, take that, then — it 
will teach you a lesson. Here's your old sick 
grandma has to go out and work for you all 
day, and you sitting here doing nothing but 
eating up her earnings. It would be better 
for me to put you in the poor-house, and be 
done with you at once. 

Hermine. What's that, grandma? Is it worse than 
this ? 



Hermine 101 

Murray. You impertinent little vixen! [Shaking her.] 
Worse than this? I should think it was; a 
crowd of bad little boys and girls around you 
all the time. 

Hermine. O don't send me there, grandma! I am 
afraid of them. But — where was it that we 
lived a long, long time ago? Such pretty 
rooms — and the bright sun shone all day long 
— and the green grass and the flowers and the 
birds ; — O everything was lovely ! 

Murray. Now, look here, if ever I hear a word of such 
nonsense out of you again, I'll let you feel the 
weight of my hand worse than I did last 
night. You young idiot, you never were in 
Such a place. Now practise till I return. 

[Exit. 

Hermine. [Angrily, looking after Murray.] I'm not 
an idiot, and I was in such a place — there! 
[Stamping her foot.] Everything was beau- 
tiful, and there was a sweet dark-haired lady 
who held me in her arms and loved me — and 
then, O dear! there was something terrible 
happened. [Looks perplexed.] I can't re- 
member, only I was so frightened [Glances 
toward door and begins to practise — takes a 
few steps, then stops and clasps her hands.] 
O I wish I could run away! [Excited and 
loud.] Isn't there anybody in the whole 
world [Sobs.] who will help me? [Weeps — 
Murray returns.] 

Murray. Stop your crying, you little blubberhead ; 



102 Hermine 

now, here's an apple a kind lady gave me to- 
day. [Hermine sobs aloud as she takes it.] 
Stop it, I tell you, this minute. Leonore's 
just coming down the street to give you your 
dancing-lesson. Now, Alice, wipe your eyes 
like a good child ; and remember you're not 
to speak a word to her — don't open your lips. 

[Exit. 

Hermine. [Wiping her eyes.] I wish I could tell 
Leonore all about it. Maybe she'd help me. 
Grandma's dreadful, I don't care if she is my 
grandma. She told Leonore that I was dumb ; 
and I think if I dared to say one word to her 
[Shivers.] grandma would kill me. She sits 
and looks at me with such a terrible look that 
all my bones shiver. [Eats apple.] 

Murray. [Entering.] You haven't practised a step, 
you disobedient child. Go to that closet and 
get your dress and slippers. [Exit Hermine.] 
I'm safe at last. [Putting room in order.] 
Meg Burns and the stewardess think that 
Hermine is dead, and have given up the 
search. Meg's gone to Scotland and Elise to 
America, and I begin to breathe freely. The 
child's got a graceful figure, and will soon 
begin to earn a pretty sum. [Hermine re- 
turns — bell rings.] Now come down stairs, 
my pet, and get dressed, for Leonore's just 
ringing the bell. But mind, keep your mouth 
shut or you'll pay for it. [Exeunt. 



Hermine 103 

Scene II. Scotland. — Lady Brackenburn's. . 
Castle. 

Enter Jeannette and Meg Burns. 

Jeannette. Why, Meg, 'tis wonderful ; a fairy tale, 
Only it hath not yet a happy ending: 
Hermine alive, and with that creature Murray ? 
And just to think that dear old Irish granny 
Should be a young and pretty girl, who's given 
These long and toilsome years with loving zeal, 
No thought of self, to seek my lady's child ! 
Meg. Yes, she's been a martyr to the cause. In the 
last five years that we've been a bustling 
round the world after Murray, now catching 
her by the shoulders and then losing her — 
following her now in Spain as Mrs. Walker, 
two months after in Corsica as Lieutenant de 
Vere, then in Austria as an old gypsy, on my 
faith we've been on our last legs sometimes, 
and we've never once laid eyes on Hermine 
in the whole five years: Murray manages to 
keep her under closed doors, the poor little 
thing ! 
Jeannette. I wish my lady knew Hermine still lives; 

She might discover means to get the child. 
Meg. Yes, Jeannette, but don't you go and blab now, 
or we'll be in a fine pickle. I think it's almost 
a shame not to tell her the child's living, and 
Elise thinks so, too, since she's been spending 
her money all these years in the search. Be- 
sides our expenses are enormous, and the old 



104 Hermine 

lady's opened her purse-strings, take my word 
for it, and given us carte blanche. 
Jeannette. My lady seems bewitched with that Elise: 
I never saw her watch so earnestly 
As now the mail since young Lord Alfred went 
To Italy to woo his beauteous bride, 
Lady Francesca, — now in foreign lands, 
Drudging it may be, for her daily bread. 
Meg. I guess Fate had determined beforehand that the 
old lady should pay for her cruelty to Lady 
Francesca. I'm glad she's beginning to re- 
pent. But I must get away. Elise is now in 
Burgundy trying to bag the game, and I must 
join her, for we have high hopes now. I can- 
not see my lady, for she would detain me here 
days. Now, Jeannette, keep a prudent tongue 
in your head, mind. You know if Elise gets 
the child, she'll never let it go out of her 
hands except into the arms of its own mother, 
Lady Francesca; so don't bungle the business 
for us. But good-by, [Finger on lip.] and 
mum's the word. [Turns to go.] O gemini! 
here's mistress; I'll have to hide somewhere. 
[Kneels behind a large arm-chair.] Stand 
front of me, Jeannette. 

Enter Lady Anne reading a letter. 

Lady Anne. A pair of hypocrites, deceivers! 
Jeannette. [Astonished and troubled.] Lady? 
Lady Anne. Here is a letter from my Paris bankers. 
Read it, Jeannette, and see how well contrived 



Hermine 105 

The villainous plot of Meg and that old grand- 
dame. 
Jeannette. [Reading.] We regret to inform your lady- 
ship that the person to whom you send such 
large remittances is wholly untrustworthy. 
She represents herself falsely to you as a per- 
son advanced in years; she is young, gay and 
unmarried, and spends your fortune in ca- 
rousing with her boon companion, one as un- 
worthy as herself: both drink deeply, give 
feasts, etc. We await your ladyship's orders. 
Meg. [Aside.] Here's a pretty kettle of fish! 
Jeannette. [Indignantly.] Meg Burns a drunkard and 
a thief ? 'Tis false. 
My lady, if Jeannette were in Meg's place, 
Would'st thou believe this foul report of me? 
Lady Anne. What mean'st thou, my Jeannette? 

Thou'rt dear to me. 
Jeannette. And Meg, has she not served thee years, 
my lady? 
I tell thee, Meg the soul of honor is, — 
The purest gold, however rough the ore. 
Lady Anne. But that deceiver, that wild girl, who 
came — 
Hypocrisy disguised as reverend age — 
And won me by her skilful-woven tale 
To shower my gold upon her? 
Jeannette. Lady, I 

Dare trust that woman unto death. Disguised ? 
Say, in her proper face and daily garb, 
How could she gain her end and circumvent 



106 Hermine 

The villain who that fair child stole ? 
Lady Anne. [Shrugging her shoulders.] Jeannette, 

I am not of your mind. [Seats herself at desk, her 
back to Meg, and begins to write. Meg rises 
and waves her hand toward Jeannette, who 
approaches her cautionsly.] 
Meg. God bless you, Jeannette; you're a regular De- 
mosthenes. Good-by! [Kisses her and exit. 
Jeannette. [Approaching Lady Anne.] Lady, I think 
If sweet Hermine were here, she'd plead the cause 
Of that lost child. 
Lady Anne. [Turning.] Alas! Jean, 'tis today 

The anniversary of my heavy woe. 
Five years today since my brown-eyed Hermine 
Was caught within those judgment-working 

flames, 
That should have had my heart within their red, 
Devouring mouths — the guilty, not the pure. 
Today she might be here — a pretty child 
Of nine, with all her winsome ways, my comfort. 
But, desperate thought ! whom have I to accuse ? 
Myself, myself alone ! When Alfred's bride, 
Francesca, came a motherless child to me, 
Her love and trust I paid with hate and fury ; 
Her mild forgiveness when I spurned her rights 
And trod her down with my authority, 
I viewed as weakness — till the fatal day 
I strove to turn my Alfred's heart from hers. 
Then her Italian blood o'erleaped its bounds: 
O she was glorious in her wrath as meek 
In love and in forgiveness! But my hate — 



Hermine 107 

'Twas Pelion upon Ossa piled that day 
And burned volcanic till I thrust her forth 
To toil and poverty — [Passionate emotion.] and — 
killed — her child. [Weeps.] 
Jeannette. [Kneeling by her side.] Chide not thyself 
thus harshly, dearest madam ; 
A Providence divine doth govern all. 
Have comfort, lady! 
Lady Anne. [Rising in anguish.] Speak not, Jean, to 
me 
Of comfort! Not from this broad earth, or 

Heaven 
Itself can comfort come : O I was mad — 
A wolf could do no more — nay, not so much — 
'Twould shelter its own little ones. — I tell thee 
Hate is a demon guest, whose hell-bred fangs 
Tear most the heart that fondles it. 
[Seats herself: buries her face in her hands, while half- 
suppressed sobs and moans are heard now and 
again. Enter Meg stealthily ; Jeannette retires to 
background; they consult in pantomime.] 
Jeannette. [Approaching Lady Anne.] My lady, 

A saintly Sister craves an audience. 
Lady Anne. Go, give her what she craves in gold or 

food. 
Jeannette. Madam, her business is with thee and press- 
ing. 
Lady Anne. [Annoyed.] It must be, then? Admit 
her. 

Enter Sister Marie with Jeannette. 
Sister. Trust me, lady, 



108 Hermine 

I grieve to intrude upon thy sorrow. 
Lady Anne. Nay, 

Be seated, pray thee. Human hearts were made 

For grief. 
Sister. The medicine is near and sweet, 

My lady. 
Lady Anne. How? the remedy for woe 

And sin like mine? Thou know'st not what thou 
say'st, 

Good Sister. 
Sister. Yea, prayer is an angel which 

Can calm the wildest sea of woe ; a sun 

Which lights a path through darkest woods of sin. 
Lady Anne. My guilt too great for pardon is; and 
hate 

And malice wrought the crime. 
Sister. Prayer hath a sword 

That cuts the soul away from bonds of Hate ; 

And then with golden chain she fetters it 

Forevermore to Love's all-folding breast. 
Lady Anne. Pray for me, Sister. Hate has left my 
breast ; 

But O, remorse, self-accusation rend it, 

Those despots who pursue the lost in hell. 
Sister. Lady, self-accusation is the gate 

To penance here on earth ; and penance holds 

The keys of pardon. 
Lady Anne. Thou dost strengthen me; 

But murder, calumny, who can undo? 
Sister. Crave pardon of thy victim for the one ; 

Of God for both, and then thy soul is free. 



Hermine 109 

Lady Anne. [Leaning forward.'] Thou speak'st as 

thou did'st know my sorrow, Sister. 
Sister. Yea, lady, and from France I come to ask 
A boon thou wilt not now deny — that thou'lt 
Be reconciled to one I love — wilt share 
Thy grief with hers. 
Lady Anne. [Moved.] Whom dost thou mean, my 

friend ? 
Sister. Francesca! 
[Lady Anne walks in deep emotion; stops in front of 

Sister, who rises. 1 
Lady Anne. Can she pardon me? 

Sister. [Clasping her hand.] Within 

The Sacred Heart the human heart's aflame 
With love, and wrongs are burned to ashes. 
Lady, read this [Hands her a letter.] and judge 

if my Francesca 
Hath pardoned thee or not. 
[Lady Anne reads with emotion, while Sister Marie 

walks in background, rosary in hand.] 
Lady Anne. [Seating herself.] She is an angel. 

Ah ! I have wronged Francesca cruelly ; 
Sister, wilt thou bear her my late repentance? 
Sister. With all my heart, dear lady. — Now, strange 
tidings: 
Five years thou mourn 'st Hermine as dead ; [Lady 
Anne listens with intense interest.] five years 
Francesca mourns her child not dead, but chained 
To her called Murray; [Lady Anne starts.] both 

are wanderers 
Upon the Continent, pursued by two 



no Hermine 

Thou know'st full well — whose needs thou hast 

supplied 
Right royally. 
Lady Anne. [Dazed.] Great God! Is all this true? 

Methinks I'm not awake — I do but dream. 
Sister. No dream, dear lady; 'tis the truth thou'st 
heard, 
Albeit strange and sad. 
Lady Anne. Hermine still lives? 

These eyes shall see her, and these arms enfold 
her? 

bliss! [Kneeling.'] My God, I thank Thee! 
Jeannette. [Raising her up.] But now, lady, 

Meg told to me this wondrous story. 
Lady Anne. Ah! 

1 wronged her and her noble friend. 
Sister. Elise, 

Most loyal-hearted, true Elise! 

Enter Meg, dressed neatly. 
Lady Anne. [Embracing her.] Dear Meg, 

My faithful Meg! these years of toil and care 
Have been for my Hermine. 
Meg. Yes, my lady, and I think we're near the end of 
if now. Murray is in Burgundy and thinks 
we have given up the search. She's given out 
Hermine is dead. 
Sister. Dear lady, I must haste. Francesca sailed 
Some weeks ago for Europe, and perchance 
Awaits me now in Paris. First, my steps 
Must turn toward Paray of the Sacred Heart, 
A pilgrim to fulfill a solemn vow 



Hermine in 

I registered if thou should 'st grant my prayer, 

And reconciled be to Francesca, lady. 
Lady Anne. [Taking her hand.] Bide with me till the 
morrow, gentle Sister, 

And I a pilgrim, too, will go with thee. 

[Kneeling.] I pledge my vow unto the Lord for 
this, 

And trust His mercy for the rest. [Rising. 1 
Thou'lt not 

Deny me? 
Sister. 'Tis a joy beyond my hope, — 

An honor, lady. 
Lady Anne. Start we at the dawn: 

Jeannette and Meg shall bear us company. 
Sister. And peace shall visit thee in blest Paray. 

Scene III. A Darkened Room, Ill-Furnished. 

Hermine alone in fancy dress. Enter Murray. 
Murray. [Aside.] Isn't she a perfect beauty? [To 
Hermine.] You look very well tonight. Just 
see this costly dress ! It came from Paris, and 
it cost a mint of money — just to trick you out, 
you little ingrate! 
Hermine. 'Tis very bright and pretty, grandma, sure ; 
But why must I among those rude men go 
To dance and sing for them? I'd rather far 
Stay here a week in darkness than one moment 
Within the glare of that great hall — and hear 
Their vulgar jests and cheers and praises while 
With tired feet I leap and spring for hours. 
Murray. Stop all your nonsense this moment, and go 



ii2 Hermine 



to your dancing; let me see if it is all right. 
[Aside.] She shan't spoil all my plans. The 
last time she danced I got enough to pay for 
all her dancing lessons in the last two years. 
[Hermine dances — stops suddenly.] 

Hermine. [With excitement.] O grandma, do not 
send me there tonight ! 
'Tis terrible ; I cannot, cannot go. 

Murray. You minx, we've got to have bread to eat 
and you're big enough to earn it; you've had 
a good supper and you've got to go. After 
wasting all this money on you, for you to turn 
around on me with your pert ways and — 
[Shaking her.] you'll go if I have to drag 
you there. Now take that step again. [Her- 
mine dances, Murray watching in admira- 
tion.] That will do very well ; come, now, it's 
time to go. The people will be there before 
us, and all out of patience. [Hermine pouts.] 
Come, I tell you. [Taking her hand roughly.] 

Hermine. I cannot go. I will not, grandma, never. 
[Stamping her foot. Murray drags her off 
the stage.] 

Scene IV. Woods in Paray. A Shrine of the 
Sacred Heart on an Eminence in Center 
of Background; Bank Leading to It. — Rus- 
tic Benches Here and There. 

Enter Hermine, panting. 
Hermine. I am so weary and so frightened. O ! 

[She moans.] 



Hermine 113 

I can't go one step farther. [Sinks down.] 

Where's my crown ? 
Those bad boys must have stolen it when they 
Were chasing me. O what a dreadful time 
I've had since that last night I danced! How 

fierce 
And cruel grandma was ! She dragged me there ; 
But when the dance was o'er I stole away 
Wrapped in this ragged cloak, and ran and ran 
Until far in the woods I saw a house 
All, all alone. I just went in and slept 
The whole night there ; a pretty lamp, bright red, 
Was burning, so I wasn't afraid a bit. 
And then the next day and the next I begged 
And slept in that old barn so frightened. O! 

[Moans.] 
Dear me ! I think I'll die, I am so hungry. 
[Sits down, leaning against a stone. Singing of proces- 
sion of pilgrims heard in the distance — "Cor Jesu, 
miserere nobis** Hermine rises excitedly^] 
The lovely music! Listen — [Sings with them.] 

yes, I know — 
They're going home. I came with them this morn- 
ing 
Just as the golden sun lit up the tree-tops. 

there were hundreds of them ! Some had ban- 

ners 
Of red and gold — and O the lovely singing! 

[Listens.] 

1 must go join them — [Staggers.] no — I cannot 

walk — 



H4 Hermine 

What — [Hand to head.] is the matter? — I'll lie 
down awhile. 
[She lies down. A pause ensues; it grows darker grad- 
ually; she raises her head, leaning on her elbow.] 
It grows so dark. O gentle moon, come out 
And let me see my wayKD must — I — die? 
Alone [Moans.] so dark — [Moonlight.] O 

lovely moon, I thank you! — 
[Looking toward shrine.] What fairy spot is that? 

how beautiful ! 
That sweet face! — Up this mossy bank I'll creep, 
And lie there at His feet and die. 
[Creeps up the bank to right, and lies down, half fall- 
ing through weakness. She sleeps. — Vision rises 
in the rear — Blessed Margaret Mary and Angels.] 
Hermine. [In sleep.] O beauteous Vision, speak to 
me! Am I 
In Heaven? 
Bd. M. Mary. Not yet in Heaven, dear suffering child ; 
But on the morrow all thy grief shall flee ; 
Joy and deliverance shall be thine. 

Scene V. The Same. — Woods in Paray. 
Lady Francesca and Maude enter — left front. 
Lady Francesca. In this fair grove whose tangled ver- 
dure raises 
Its tempting shelter, rest we, Maude, awhile. 
'Tis early dawn ; the sun hath not yet peeped 
Above the eastern hills; a holy silence 
Broods over nature ; 'twill prepare our hearts 
For morning Mass in Paray ; go and pluck 



Hermine 115 

The flowers whose fragrant broidery adorns 
These mossy downs and dells. 
Maude. 'Tis beautiful; 

Sit, madame, on this rustic bench ; the dew 
Is sparkling here like diamonds and pearls; 
I'll throw my shawl around thee, dearest lady. 
[Maude goes toward front culling flowers.] 
Lady Francesca. 'Tis strange — a heavenly odor fills the 
air; 
It steals my senses ; 'tis enchanted ground ; 
It locks me in the chains of slumber. 

[Falls asleep.] 
Maude. [Returning.] Ah! 

My lady sleeps. How sweet her smile ! I'll walk 
Among the woods and read till she awakes. 
[Walks toward front of stage, reading — goes off left. 

Vision rises to Lady Francesca sleeping.] 
Lady Francesca. Celestial Spirits, come ye here to me? 
Vision of light and joy, O welcome! Speak, 
I conjure thee, O speak to me and bless me! 
Bd. M. Mary. Today doth bring the end of all thy woe. 
I am the herald of the Sacred Heart, 
And peace and joy unutterable are thine. 
Vision disappears; Maude re-enters with flowers; 
walks around stage and sees Hermine. 
Maude. O wondrous sight! a fairy, sure, or else 

An angel. [Approaches Hermine.] 
Hermine. [Awaking.] Where, O where is that sweet 
vision ? 
[Moaning.] I — die ! 



u6 Hermine 

Maude. The pretty darling! [Frightened.] Is she 
dead? 
[Goes toward Lady Francesco.] 
My lady, come — quick, quick, I fear she's dead. 
Lady Francesca. [Taking Hermine' s hand.] No, no, 
she is not dead, sweet child! [Kissing her.] 
Bring me 
The cordial, Maude. [Hermine drinks, looking 
at Lady Francesca earnestly.] 
Hermine. Who art thou — lovely — lady? [Gasping.] 
I love thee so — I'd never — part from thee. 
[Draws her down, clasps her tightly and 
kisses her, then jails back exhausted, eyes 
closed.] 
Lady Francesca. We'll take her to the rustic bench, 

dear Maude. 

[They go slowly toward the bench. Lady Francesca 

places Hermine on it, and seating herself, lets the 

child's head rest upon her breast. Maude puts an 

orange to the mouth of the child, who looks at it 

admiringly.] 

Hermine. What is it? Isn't it pretty? — and so sweet! 

Maude. An orange, pretty one ; 'twill make you strong. 

Enter in foreground Lady Anne Brackenburn, Sister 

Marie and Jeannette. 
Lady Anne. Dame Nature hath put on her loveliest 
robes 
To greet our coming ; see ! the King of Day 
Is making all the orient to laugh; 
The trees are full of singing birds ; the flowers 
Bloom here in wild luxuriance and fill 



Hermine 117 

The ambient air with wondrous odors ; sit 
We here a while beneath the verdant roof 
Of this secluded dell. 

Sister. Yea, willingly; 

The morn is glorious, and the modest town 
Seems all astir to taste its sweet refreshment; 
The pilgrims haste from all sides to the shrine 
Of Marguerite, the pearl of dear Paray. 
But look ! some travelers are resting here 
Upon that rustic seat. 

[Maude hears the sound of her voice, rises, and rushes 
toward Sister Marie.] 

Maude. O Sister dear, how glad I am to see you ! 

Sister. My darling Maude — here in Paray? [Em- 
braces Lady Francesca.~\ A sweet 
Surprise, Francesca dear, that thou should'st meet 
Me here in this blest spot, and all at peace. 

Lady Francesca. Sweet Sister, how I've longed for 
thee! My prayers 
A bounteous Providence hath heard. 

[Hermine rises in a sitting posture, and looks with 
curiosity at Sister Marie. Maude goes behind 
bench and stands near Jeannette. Lady Anne, 
struggling with her emotions, finally advances; 
Lady Francesca arises — Hermine still clinging to 
her — and they look each other full in the face.] 

Lady Francesca. [Stretching out her arms toward 
Lady Anne.] My mother! 

Lady Anne. [Falling on her knees.] My child, Fran- 
cesca, pardon on my knees 
I crave. 

Lady Francesca. O rise, my mother ! dear to me, 



1 18 Hermine 

Forever dear thou art. May Heaven forgive 
Me as I now forgive ; the past is buried. 

[Both embrace.] 

Lady Anne. [With deep emotion.] Hermine! 

Lady Francesca. [Weeping.] My darling! 

Lady Anne. [Caressing Hermine.] And this little 
angel — 
Who is she, dear Francesca ? 
Lady Francesca. We found her dying in this lovely 
dell 
At His dear feet : the wine and food have called 
Her back to life. 
[Lady Anne, kneeling, offers Hermine a glass of wine. 
Hermine sips it, looking at Lady Anne with a 
pleased smile.] 
Hermine. You are so beautiful, I love you, too. 
Maude. I'll call a carriage, lady, and we'll take 

The dear child home. 
Hermine. [Screams in agony.] No — no ; don't take me 
back — [She clings to Lady Francesca and 
Lady Anne.] 
O lovely ladies, do not leave me ! Save me — 
O keep me here; I have no home on earth! 
Enter Elise and Meg, dragging Murray. Hermine 

puts her hand over her face, shrieking. 
Hermine. That's grandma; O I'll run away again! 
Murray. [Loud voice and frightened.] Let me go, 
wretches; you've got Hermine at last. 
[Aside.] O where shall I fly from Lady 
Anne's wrath? 



Hermine 119 

Elise. {Keeping a firm hold of Murray.] Hermine? 

the lost is found — thank Heaven! 
[Hermine rises up, falls and is caught by Lady Anne, 

who puts her in Lady Francesco's arms.] 
Lady Anne. Hermine, our blessed, blessed child! I 
thank Thee, 
O Lord, my God, all merciful! [Embraces and 
kisses Hermine. Lady Frances ca presses the 
child passionately to her heart, weeping for 
joy.] 
Lady Francesca. Hermine — 

My own, my precious one, forever mine! 
O heavenly dream! Sweet herald of the Heart 
Divine, Thy words of blissful prophecy 
Are all fulfilled. 
Hermine. [Between Lady Francesca and Lady Anne, 
with an arm around each.] O darling, darling 
mamma ! 
Did you, too, have that lovely, heavenly vision ? 
A beauteous lady came to me last night 
With angels, and in sweetest tones she said 
My grief would all be turned to joy today. 
Sister Marie. [Standing behind Hermine.] Sweet 
child of prayer, God has been good to us. 
My dear Francesca, Heaven rains its joys: 
My heart is all too full for utterance. 
[Murray, who has been looking on with sullen amaze- 
ment, now struggles fiercely, held by Meg and 
Elise.] 
Murray. Let me go, I implore you ! 
Meg. Not one step will you go from here: justice has 



120 Hermine 

overtaken you, and you'll pay for your evil 
doings. 
Lady Anne. My faithful Meg and valiant-souled 
Elise, 
Come hither; share the joy for which you've 

toiled ; 
Leave her to God, whose judgments are most sure; 
This is the hour of peace and joy and pardon. 
Jeannette. [Kneeling by Lady Anne.] I cannot speak; 
thou know'st my heart, dear lady. 

[Lady Anne caresses her and whispers.] 
Lady Francesca. Nay, pause not, dear Klise and Meg; 
embrace 
Our lost Hermine. 
[They loose their hold of Murray, who rushes off 
scene to left. Elise throws off disguise, and kneel- 
ing at Lady Francesco's feet kisses Hermine.] 
Lady Francesca. [Embracing her with right hand.] 

My noble, true Elise! 
[Meg goes behind, and leaning over embraces Her- 
mine.] 
Meg. Lady Anne, your wish is my law; but I think 
Murray deserved something pretty near to 
hanging. 
Lady Anne. Nay, Meg, Hermine is found. [Presses 

her face against H ermine's.] 
Hermine. I am all well again, and O so happy ! 

Dear mamma and my own, own grandma, how 
I love you : never shall we part again. 
Sister Marie. O Sacred Heart ! Thou hast these won- 
ders wrought 



Hermine 121 

To show us that Thy power and love are bound- 
less: 
After our weary waiting and our woe, 
The sweet surprises of Thy Providence 
Have thronged upon us in an hour. The lost 
Is found here at Thy hallowed shrine; and here 
Forgiveness and true reconcilement grow 
As stately trees with arms protecting twined 
Above this sweetest flower of human-kind. 
Tableau. Curtain. 



HEARTS OF GOLD, TRUE 
AND TRIED 



A COLONIAL DRAMA 

In Five Acts. 

Persons of the Play. 

Madame Carter, a middle-aged widow lady. 

Philip Carter, her son, aged twenty. 

Anne, daughter of Madame Carter, aged eighteen. 

George, son of Madame Carter, aged sixteen. 

Madame Burleigh, sister of Madame Carter. 

Phoebe Adams, ward of Madame Burleigh. 

Madame Barclay, a widow lady, neighbor of the 

Carters. 
William Barclay, her son, aged twenty-two. 
Eleanor Montrose, her niece, and the betrothed of 

Philip. 
Father Richdale, a priest. 
Sir Thomas Lovelace, a spy, disguised as Madame 

Bellefleur. 
Mammy Julia, servant of Madame Carter. 
Mammy Dinah, servant of Madame Barclay. 
Abimelech Jeremiah, son of Julia. 
Susannah, daughter of Julia. 
Angels of the Dream. 



HEARTS OF GOLD, TRUE 
AND TRIED 

Scene. — In Carterville, Virginia. 

Act I. 

Scene I. — Madame Carter s home in Vir- 
ginia. A room handsomely furnished. Enter 
Madame Carter from right, reading a letter. 
As she advances toward front she reads aloud 
thoughtfully. 

Madame Carter. "And Colonel Washington, the hero 
of the French and Indian War, stood up and 
said: 'Hope of redress is past: 'tis time for 
action — we must fight: there's naught for us 
but independence or slavery ; and I devote my 
life and fortune to our cause.' " 

Must fight — or naught for us but slavery ? 

'Twas war that widowed me. My valiant Philip ! 

My tears will never cease till death shall seal 

These eyes. [Weeps, then recovers her self, .] My 
children, pledges of his love! 

Father of orphans, help a mother's weakness ! — 

Heirs of his virtues' rich inheritance, 

Enter Philip from rear — listens, moved. 

Guide Thou their steps in triumph to the end ! 



126 Hearts of Gold, 

Honor and valor like twin stars shine ever 
Above them in the bending heavens, and lead 
Their hearts to dare, their hands to do the deeds 
That claim undying glory from a people. 

[She turns and starts as Philip advances.] 
Philip, my son, O is there naught can move 
Thy laggard feet where Duty points the way? 
Thy arms — thy belted sword — thy father's heart — 
Where are they? Is't an hour when men should 

shrink, 
Grow pale and tremble at the cannon's sound ? 
Philip. Nay, mother mine, thou wrong'st me; coward 

fear 
Lives not in blood of thine, or his who gave 
His emptied veins unto his country: vain, 
All vain and cruel is this bootless strife. 
Behold us — a poor, feeble people, struggling 
For bare existence, without ships or arms — 
No friends, no money for this wild emprise : 
Naught but our lives — and shall we lay them 

down 
For this chimera, and our mothers leave, 
Husbands their wives, their little helpless ones, 
Shelterless, prey to savages and beasts? 
Madame Carter. God is the widow and the orphan's 

Father ! 
And if a man's blood dew the ground of freedom, 
Thence it shall rise as sacrificial incense 
Unto the throne of God, to plead for those 
He loved, and shining clouds of angels bring 
To guard the sanctuary of their home! 



True and Tried 127 

Philip. [Troubled.] I reverence thy lofty-thoughted 
faith ; 
But to rebel against our lawful monarch — 

Enter in rear Anne Carter and Eleanor Montrose; they 
listen. 

Madame Carter. [Indignantly.] Rebel against the op- 
pressor's tyranny ! 
Against the chains already forged for us 
And for our children ! Happier to die, 
Than trembling crouch beneath an iron heel. 

Philip. But, mother mine, to spread our puny arms 
Against the mightiest nation of the globe — 
'Gainst the broad ocean covered with her fleets — 
'Tis folly. Let these northern painted actors 
That played their little drama on the sea, 
Fill up the measure of their hardihood, 
And spill their blood instead of England's tea 
Upon the whelming waters of injustice: 
The mocking waves hide many a wreck of men 
And nations' folly — 

Anne. Brother, mock not thou 

The dauntless hearts that dared to do what God 
And men approve — strike for the right ! 

Philip. [Taking Eleanor s hand.] Better 

To pay the tax and keep our hearths in peace. 

Eleanor. Nay, Philip, thou dost injure these brave lads. 
A principle they fought for — sacred rights 
Of men and subjects have been trampled on. 

Philip. I stand rebuked — three ladies all against me. 
I can but bow my colors [Bows profoundly.] to 
your will. 



128 Hearts of Gold, 

Madame Carter. A truce to war in honor of our guest. 
Philip. And, mother mine, I came to bear good tidings. 
My cup of joy is full — this little hand 
Is mine at last ; and we would seek together 
Our mother's blessing. 
Madame Carter. [Embracing Eleanor.] Dearest child, 
whom I 
Have loved since from thy dying mother's arms 
I saw thee borne a weeping babe. [They kneel.] 

May all 
The benedictions of high Heaven rest 
On you and make your lives a path of peace 
And sweetness growing to eternal day! 
Enter George Carter in excitement and panting for 

breath, followed by Madame Burleigh. 
George. O mother, war — war has begun — the men 
Are arming — there's a battle — fought in Con- 
cord — 
The British are defeated — [Throwing up his cap.] 

sixty-five 
Are dead — and nigh two hundred wounded — 
and — 
Madame Carter. Thank God ! Thank God ! the col- 
onists despised, 
Down-trodden, yet have Him to friend. 
Madame Burleigh. [Angrily.] Maria, 

Art thou a Christian woman and canst praise 
The God of Heaven for such barbarity? 
They are thy brethren, speak the self-same tongue, 
And worship at one altar — yea, and more, 
The servants of thy king, the good King George. 



True and Tried 129 

George. [Twirling his cap.] Let George and all his 
ministers beware! 
They've raised a nest of hornets round their heads. 

Eleanor. Our Patrick Henry was a prophet — he 
Knew well those warlike preparations meant 
To force us to submission — that her fleets 
And armies came to bind and rivet on us 
Old England's chains. 

Anne. Henry, Hancock, and Adams! 

O glorious trio, that our rising country 
May well be proud of ! 

Madame Burleigh. [Contemptuously.] Three rank 
traitors, rebels 
Unto their lawful king. 

George. [Laughing.] Ah, where art thou, 
Mnemosyne, that this fair sister mine 
Forgets my patron saint, the king of men, 
The glory of our state, George Washington ? 

Madame Burleigh. The arch-traitor of them all — born 
but to be 
The ruin of our land. 

Madame Carter. O sister, he 

Shall be its savior in this perilous hour ! 

Thou know'st as I his tried, heroic virtue, 

His magnanimity, his lofty principle, 

His reverence for God, his love of country ; 

No less his gracious courtesy and kindness. 

Ah, when my Philip fell, who stanched his blood, 

And caught the last words from his dying lips 

And wrote them in the dead of night to be 

My comfort? [Weeps."] 



130 Hearts of Gold, 

Eleanor. Yea, his star shall rise in glory, 

And in the zenith shall outshine a thousand 

Pale lights of sceptered monarchs. [Eleanor looks 
up into Philip's face; he presses into her hand 
a pearl rosary which, with a smile, she kisses.] 
George. Mother best 

And dearest, grant a boon, I pray. 
Madame Carter. What would 

My wayward little son, to hunt, to sail — 
George. [Interrupting.] Aye, aye, to hunt the foe from 
our loved land — 

To sail proud England's fleets back to her waters. 
Anne. O Philip, hear this child's pure madness! 
[Turning to George.] Thou? 

Thou canst not hold a sword. 
Madame Burleigh. Deluded one! [Embracing him.] 

Wilt thou be cut down in thy life's young flower ? 

Perchance high on the scaffold hang a traitor? 

Hast thou no care for me — for us who love thee? 

Maria, bid him cease this folly. One 

Hath freely shed his heart's blood ; 'tis enough. 
George. Nay, for that father's sake whose blood within 

These veins still courses, mother, say the word 

That's music to my ears : "Go forth, my son, 

And fight for liberty." 

[Madame Carter turns aside with emotion.] 
Eleanor. [Caressing him.] What canst thou do? 

Thou know'st not the fierce hardships that beset 

The soldier's path — the storm of bullets round 

This dear young head — 
George. [Interrupting.] Nay, what said Washington? 



True and Tried 131 

"I heard the bullets whistle and the sound 
Was charming to my ears." I follow him, 
And say in Patrick Henry's deathless words : 
"O give me liberty or give me death!" 

[Exit Philip abruptly. 
Madame Carter. [Embracing him.] Brave boy, how 

dare I crush the lofty impulse 
That calls thee to defend the shrine of Freedom? 
Alas! perchance unto the lap of Death, 
I see before me myriads of wrecks 
Of young and ardent lives the years shall leave 
In seas of blood, ere yet this mighty struggle 
Shall end in Victory's brow-bound wreaths. Shalt 

thou, 
My patriot, then thy manhood full achieved, 
Return to me among the glorious few, 
Or shalt thou — 
George. [Interrupting gaily.] Nay, no gloomy prophe- 
cies, 
My mother; [Kneeling and kissing her hand.] 

bless me ; [She lays her hand upon his head.] 

yet I shall bring back 
My father's name, covered a second time 
With glory. 

Enter Philip with belt and sword. 
Philip. [Tenderly.] Thou, thou weakling boy, thy 

place 
Is here to guard our mother, not to follow 
In van of armies. Mother, 'tis my right 
To wield the sword ; my father's yet is sharp 
And it shall cleave its way unto the heart 



132 Hearts of Gold, 

Of many a foe if thou but belt it on. [Madame 
Burleigh in background pleads excitedly with 
Anne, who looks with tense interest on the 
scene.] 
Madame Carter. [Holding sword with Philip.] God 
bless thee, son, my Philip! Thou hast re- 
deemed 
Thyself and conquered nobly. 
George. [Excitedly, laying his hand on the sword.] 
Join our hands, 
My mother, for before high Heaven I pledge 
My life-blood to my country's liberty. 
Madame Burleigh. [Rushing forward.] They're mad 

— all mad — what will become of us ? 
Madame Carter. [Solemnly.] Heaven bless and guard 
my children ! 
May you pass 
Unscathed, like Israel's children, thro' the fire! 
Thro' you "the world's best garden be achieved," 
A heritage till time shall be no more 
Of our posterity, a race of free men. 

[Taking the sword and raising it on high.] 
O God of Battles! consecrate this sword — 
Let right and justice now prevail o'er might 
And tyranny, who know'st success of war 
Is not in multitudes of armed men, 
But in the right arm of Thy holy strength. 
Guard Thou our homes — the widow and the or- 
phan — 
And overthrow our foes before our face! 
[Turning to Eleanor and handing her the sword.] 



True and Tried 133 

And now let Love gird on the hallowed sword. 
Eleanor. [Deeply moved, girds it on.~\ My hero, may 
it be like Arthur's sword, 
Excalibur, or Charlemagne's Joyeuse, 
That thou unharmed amid a thousand frays 
Mayst lift it 'gainst our haughty enemy 
And bring it back in peace, a trophy crowned 
With fadeless laurels for our children's children. 

Tableau — Curtain. 

Act II. 

Scene I. — Madame Carter s garden. Julia 
and Dinah discovered in confidential talk. 

Julia. Po' lille Miss El'nor, she jes' cryin' dem eyes o' 
hern out; she done got lettah f'um Massa 
Philip an' she an' Missus locked deyselves up 
in de front room an' des' joyin' deyselves. He 
mos' sholy be cunnel o' gin'al some day. 

Dinah. Dat's so : when I done look at dat angel o' his'n 
— I feel 'miration : she git so white when dey 
guv her de lettah, I thought she faint in her 
mammy's arms. An' she pray so — she luk 
like a hevumly seruph in de chapel wid dem 
beads in her han' dat Massa Philup guv her 
fo' he say good-by. 

Julia. Missus feel mighty bad: she tole Massa Philup 
de day fo' de ball he couldn't nohow git con- 
jin'd in mattermony till aftuh he git back an' 
de wah's done over : den she have pow'f ul big 
weddin' an' 'vite ev'y fambly in de col'ny. 



134 Hearts of Gold, 

Dinah. {Laughing.} Dey come ter dance de Miniet an' 
eat my weddin' cake. 

Julia. Dat Minuret mighty peart dance ; Massa Philup, 
he make de mos' hevumly bow. 

[Bows very low and stiffly.} 

Dinah. Mammy Jule, please fo' to ba'h in min' dat 
Massa Willum's des' as smart on his toes as 
any odder you knows; an' — Miss Anne — all 
de folks luk at her — des' as purty as a pictur' ; 
but po' lille Miss El'nor she luk like de angels 
o' Hevum itself in dem curtsey's o' hern. 

[Makes a profound courtesy.} 

Julia. Yo' mos' sut'nly ben done pract'sin' dat cut'sy o' 
yourn, Dinah. Dah, now, les us do de Min- 
daret dance : Fse Massa Philup an' you' his'n 
lille sweetheart. [They dance the Minuet 
extravagantly, laughing.} We goin' git 'long 
mighty nice wid dem lo-ong steps. 

[Suits the action to the word.} 

Enter in rear Abimelech Jeremiah, followed by Susan- 
nah with baby in her arms. 

Abim. Jeremiah. [Laughing and gesticulating.} Ha — 
ha — ha! Luk at Mammy! She dance de 
quadrille dat de qual'ty dance de odder night. 

Susannah. [Tossing the baby in her arms.} Dey's hav- 
in' fun ; les us git up one 'tween yo' an' I. 
[Puts the baby on a bench with much ado, 
and they dance comically, imitating each step 
of Julia and Dinah. Baby cries; Susannah 
takes it up, shakes it, and slaps it down hard 



True and Tried 135 

on the seat.] Hush up, yo' pickaninny. [Baby 
cries louder.] 

Julia. [Turning.] Abimelech Jeremiah, wat yo' two 
heah fo' ? Go 'long home wi' dat po' chile. 

Abim. Jeremiah. [Capering and leading Susannah for- 
ward.] Mammy, les us be Mas' Philup and 
Miss Anne, an' dance wid you' an' Mam' 
Dinah. 

Dinah. Come 'long, yo' bressed chillum; les play de 
ball all over. 

Julia. O Dinah, yo' de mos' 'ceptionable fool I never 
knew of. 

Dinah. [Laughing.] Den de cap an' bells 'long on yo', 
too, Missy Jule — fo' yo' mos' sut'nly fus' 
begun ter use yo' legs. 

[The four dance Minuet extravagantly, singing a plan- 
tation song to the time of dance.] 

Susannah. [Looking off stage.] O 'Bimlech Jer'miah, 
dey's Miss Anne comin' up de walk, sho's my 
name's Susannah. 

Julia. O God's mussy ! she tink we all done gone crazy ; 
[Raising her voice.] Abimelech Jeremiah, go 
home dis minut ; an' Susannah, see yo' tuk ca' 
dat baby, an' keep 'way fum dese yere p'emises 
or I'll show yo' how hard dis han' is. [Exeunt 
Julia and Dinah, left; the children go up the 
stage in haste, Susannah catching up the baby 
on the way, and meet Miss Anne entering 
from right, reading a newspaper. She gives 
each of them an apple, then goes forward and 
seats herself. They play and make humorous 



136 Hearts of Gold, 

pantomimes in the background. Madame 
Burleigh appears, when, with gestures of 
fright , they run off precipitately. 
Madame Burleigh. [Taking a seat by Anne.] There's 
news, but I have sought in vain to hear 

The last despatches ; yet I fear the British 

Are losers; Bunker Hill was bad enough, 

A slaughter, if a victory. 
Anne. Ah, me! 

Dear Auntie, that you will not love my hero, 

Our great commander, General Washington. 
Madame Burleigh. My child, I cannot tolerate a 
traitor. 

If thou would'st but be ruled by me, and throw 

Republican ideas to the winds, 

I'd make a lovely English match for thee — 

A noble — lands and money and a place 

In court thy happy lot. 
Anne. [Laughing merrily.] And all thy plans 

That soar so high must fall to earth because 

I am so lowly-minded. Dost thou think 

The court is half so happy as our home? 

And then — the — neighbors, too, — are pleasant. 
Madame Burleigh. Yea, 

The Barclays ever. But I must away ; 

A lady from old England comes this morn 

I have not seen these many years. 
Anne. Indeed? 

And young and pretty, Aunt, or old and sad ? 
Madame Burleigh. Thyself shalt be the judge, so au 
revoir. [Exit. 



True and Tried 137 

Anne. [Looking after her.] I do distrust her, why I 

cannot say. 
Enter William Barclay — bows low; Anne rises form- 

ally. 
William. Good-morrow ; 'tis a boon I had not dreamed 
To meet thee here. Wilt thou be seated, Anne ? 
'Tis pleasant here and I have much to tell thee. 
Anne. [Embarrassed.] Nay, — I must go; — my duties 

— call me hence. 
William. [Taking her hand.] And duty holds thee 
here ; time presses now — 
The troops are massing, and but two days hence 
I must depart. Thou know'st what I would ask ; 
I love thee, and would have thee as my wife — 
Our union sealed by Holy Church ere yet 
I go — perhaps forever— from thy side. 
Anne. Nay, — not forever, William; — [Pausing and 

turning away a little.] let me think — 
William. [Pleadingly ; Anne listens with downcast 
eyes.] Forget not, Anne, these years of deep 
devotion ; 
My thoughts have ever winged their way to thee ; 
My life's best hopes are centered in thy love. 
Wilt thou not crown my passionate desires? 
Anne. And Madame Barclay — doth this meet her 

wishes ? 
William. Thou know'st my mother loved thee from a 
child, 
And waits to clasp thee as her daughter. 
Anne. [Hesitating.] But — 

This haste: — I know not what to say. 



138 Hearts of Gold, 

William. Yet, dearest, 

This haste is wrought of Providence. Not even 
The sparrow — thou dost know the rest. Thy 

hairs — 
These beauteous hairs [Caressing them.] that 

have enmeshed my heart — 
Are numbered by His loving hand. — Thy mother 
Gracious consent hath given, if I have thine. 

Anne. Then, William, as thou wilt: my hand is thine. 

William. [Kneeling and kissing her hand.] This lily 
hand — O it shall consecrate 
And bless my life with love and truth and beauty ! 
And dearest one, good Father Richdale stays 
Three days at Carrollton, and thence will come 
To seal us one forever. [They walk off, right. 

Scene III. — Enter Julia and Dinah from left 
with sewing. 

Julia. [With hushed voice and laughing.] Dinah, 

honey, whar Missus Burleigh? 
Dinah. Wha' fo' yo' ax me, honey? Yo' think I go 

roun' countin' her steps all de day? 
Julia. [Significantly.] I knows mor'n yo'. She done 

gone down de garden wid some'un ; luk like 

as if she done wan' nobody see 'um. Mighty 

quare ! 
Dinah. O Mammy Jule, yo' de mos' deceivin'dest 

woman I never did see. Des' some old frien' 

o' de fambly, I reckon. Yo' alius suspicionin' 

on po' ole Auntie Burleigh. 
Julia. [Holding her needle.] Ef des one thing out er 



True and Tried 139 

God's world I do nachully hate an' mos' 
notorusly 'nominate wuss'n a rattlesnake in 
de grass, it be one o' dem English tories. Dey 
say des a considabul o' dem spies a trabblin' 
fro' de land. I des went six foot away fum 
Missus, an' fo' de Lawd, she gimme one luk 
dat friz de blood in dese yere veins, an' I run 
mighty quick, I kin tell yer. 

Dinah. [Frightened.] Heah dey come, honey Julia. 

Julia. {Pushing her off, right.] Les git a mild away, 
fo' she see us. [Exeunt. 

Scene IV. — The same. Enter Madame 
Burleigh, and Sir Thomas Lovelace disguised 
as Madame Bellefleur. 

Madame Burleigh. [Sweetly.] I have the papers and 
the charts, Sir Thomas, 

And this spot is secure from prying eyes ; 

So sit we here. And while we need much leisure, 

Haste urges and will mar our plans, perhaps. 
Sir Thomas. [Looking over papers.] These, then, are 
chief of all the nests of rebels 

That line the Chesapeake and its near streams. 
Madame Burleigh. [Troubled.] Yea, but recall — thy 
solemn pledge is given 

That none of mine shall suffer harm or loss? 
Sir Thomas. A soldier's oath is binding unto death. 

I shall protect your interests as mine own ; 

Your fields shall not be spoiled — nor relative 

Nor friend be wronged in person or estate. 



140 Hearts of Gold, 

Fear not: my word is pledged. — These, then, are 

rich, 
And England needs a flood of treasure now. 
Madame Burleigh. But — you — you will not take them 

prisoners ? 
Sir Thomas. We cannot prophesy when the war-god 

rules. 
Madame Burleigh. Nay, promise. [Aside.] O how 
can I do this thing? 
Enter Phoebe Adams in traveling suit. 
Phoebe. [Embracing Madame Burleigh.] O madame 
dearest, what delight to be 
With thee again. [Sir Thomas rises, goes to left 
in an ecstasy of admiration.] I've longed to 
see thy face 
Each day these three long months I've been away. 
Madame Burleigh. And I have missed thee, too, my 
little sunbeam ; 
So many things have happed to make us sad, 
Perplexed and miserable. 
Phoebe. Ah, but now 

I'll bring the roses back into thy cheeks, 

[Rubbing them.] 
And we shall ride and sail and read of nights. 
But I crave pardon, madame. May I greet 
Thy friend ? For thine are ever dear to me. 
Madame Burleigh. [Embarrassed.] My ward, Miss 
Adams; Mr. [Hesitates, corrects herself.] 
Mrs. Lovelace. 
Sir Thomas. [Smiling.] Madame Bellefleur — you 
know I've married since 



True and Tried 141 

You met me last. [Bows to Phoebe.] I am indeed 

most honored 
To meet so lovely and so sweet a bud 
Of this young land's fair garden. Thou dost 

grace 
Nature herself with thy pure early bloom. 
Phoebe. [Pleased and smiling.] I thank you, madame, 

but I fear you flatter. 
I'm but a simple maiden just from school. 
Sir Thomas. The innocent are ever beautiful. 

[Madame B. talks aside with Phoebe — tries 

to induce her to go away.] 
Sir Thomas. [Aside.] What shall I say? O desperate 

disguise ! 
For love has captured me with her bright eyes. 
Madame Burleigh. My dear, [Kissing her and trying 

to lead her away.] we're talking of the good 

old times 
In England, [Sir Thomas shrugs his shoulders.] 

when we both were young and played 
In the ancestral halls. We've much to say, 
And — you will wait us on the porch ? 
Phoebe. [Pettishly.] Dear madame knows / love the 

good old times 
And have a bump of curiosity 
That's out of all proportion with my size 
Diminutive. 
Sir Thomas. Ah, maiden fair, petite, 

That bump is but a little nest where birds 
Fly in and out and tell you many secrets. 



142 Hearts of Gold, 

Madame Burleigh. [Anxiously but sweetly.] Dear 

Phoebe, you shall hear another time. 
Phoebe. [Laughing.] And I perforce must lose the 
sweet romance, 
And tales of rivals and the glorious scenes 
Of court and castle, and the dancers gay 
That charmed night's dazzling hours too soon 
away. 
[Sir Thomas approaches her with glowing face. Mad- 
ame B. takes her hand and leads her away by force, 
Phoebe looking back and meeting Sir Thomas' ad- 
miring gaze; he continues to look off the stage ab- 
sently until Madame Burleigh's return.] 
Madame Burleigh. [Out of breath.] Thank goodness! 
[Touches Sir Thomas' arm.] Let us haste, 
Sir Thomas, now ; 
Here is the chart — a perfect one. 
Sir Thomas. [Absently.] Yes, yes, — 

Your ward is charming: yet I have not seen 
A maid who has so moved me. 
Madame Burleigh. Yes, she's fair, 

And rich as lovely, heiress to estates 
That stretch for miles in wooded valleys. 
Sir Thomas. [Goes to left — aside.] Would I could 
tear away this vile disguise, 
And see her in my native character. 
Madame Burleigh. [Approaching him.] I hear a 
sound, Sir Thomas ; there is danger 
For both if we should be discovered. Look! 

[Showing chart.] 
I fear this is the last time I shall see you. 



True and Tried 143 

Sir Thomas. [Earnestly.'] You will not fail me, now, 
madame? [Hands her to a bench and sits 
beside her.] My hopes 
Are in your help. [Concentrating his mind.] 
Along the left bank here 
Enter Phoebe roguishly in rear; advances , 
listening with intense and excited interest. 
We sail by night secure to Baltimore ; 
And ere the morn hath dawned or stars have set 
Our shells shall fire the treacherous city. 
Madame Burleigh. [Starting up.] Shell? 

Shell Baltimore ? [Snatching chart and papers and 
tearing them to pieces.] O God, forgive my 
crime ! 
Take back thy gold — [Throwing purse on bench.] 
it burns my sinful fingers. 
Phoebe. [Coming forward to center.] Madame, what 

hast thou done ? 
Madame Burleigh. [Averting her face.] O Phoebe, 
Phoebe, 
Spare me, reproach me not! [Aside to Sir 

Thomas.] Flee, flee thou hence, 
Sir Thomas, quick, I charge thee ! 

[He stands gazing on Phoebe.] 
Phoebe. [With intense scorn.] Thou — a spy? 
O 'neath a woman's garb — how pitiful ! 
Thou shalt not 'scape, for I — [She turns swiftly; 
Sir Thomas strides forward and takes her 
hand.] 
Sir Thomas. [Gently.] Nay, maiden fair, 

A whistle, and a guard is here at once : — 



144 Hearts of Gold, 

I go from thee with pain, for ne'er till now 
Have I seen woman like to thee. 
Madame Burleigh. [Leading her away.] My Phoebe, 
Haste from this place; come in at once. [To Sir 
Thomas hurriedly.] Farewell! 
[Sir Thomas still gazes after Phoebe; in a moment she 
returns with pleading look — stands at a distance 
from him.] 
Phoebe. If thou hast ne'er — seen woman — like to me — 

Grant me one prayer. 
Sir Thomas. Aught thou wilt ask, I swear, 

Fair lady. 
Phoebe. [With emotion.] O then, let all that thou hast 
heard from her 
Lie in oblivion's grave, and never rise 
To tempt thee to the harm of my dear country ! 
Sir Thomas. [Kneeling.] I pledge my honor and my 

word to thee. 
Phoebe. [Solemnly raising and extending her hand 
toward him.] So may God bless thee as thou 
keep'st thy word ! 

Curtain. 

Act III. 

Scene I. — Madame Barclay's home. A 
room handsomely furnished. Desk left; table 
near center, on it a violin. Eleanor is discov- 
ered watering a plant. She pauses, takes a 
picture from table and looks at it with emo- 
tion. 



True and Tried 145 

Eleanor. Three years away — what weary years of 
anguish, 
Of hope and fear! While we poor women pray, 
Our heroes suffer cold and hunger, sickness, — 
Hardships that make our hearts bleed at the hear- 
ing: 
Princeton and Valley Forge — the Delaware — 
'Tis terrible ! O God most merciful, 
Bring Thou these horrors to an end ! Yet how 
Have I deserved that He should guard my Philip 
From touch of steel or cannon's charge ? He bears, 
They say, a charmed life ; and while red Death 
Mows down the young and brave beside him, he 
Wields still his sword Excalibur, unhurt. 
Enter Madame Barclay and Anne. 

Madame Barclay. Anne brings us news from William 
and from George: 
Good tidings, little one. 

Anne. [With open letter; kisses Eleanor.] Your 
Philip's colonel, 
And George has won a corporal's cap. 

Eleanor. [Joyously.] Great news! 

What joy to know their valor is rewarded ! 
And William? He is major, sure, or captain. 

Anne. [Laughing.] Yes, he is captain of a valiant 
band: 
Has had a graze or two, and — chilblains: — 
The outlook's bright, and France is sending help. 
Read it, my dear. [Handing her the letter.] 

Eleanor. Our Washington has gained 

A victory at Monmouth, Auntie, for 



146 Hearts of Gold, 

The foe stole off 'neath cover of the night. 

[Rising.] 

And our great General's praise of your brave 

William 
And Philip pours a balm upon my heart. [Reads.] 
"Their feats of skill and valor went beyond 
Old soldiers' high achievements, and demand 
A swift promotion in the ranks of honor." 
O what a triumph for us all! 
Anne. And look: [Showing another letter.] 

See George's postscript: "General Lee so blun- 
dered 
We almost lost the battle ; but our glory, 
Our Washington, came up and saved us: now 
Is Lee so haughty and incensed that he, 
'Tis feared, will leave the army ; 'tis a blow 
To our great General and loss to all." 
Eleanor. Anger and pride in such an hour? Division 
When fate of millions in the balance hangs? 
Disunion from a chief like Washington ? 
Vindictiveness is base and demon-like : 
Pray God its serpent's fangs not enter there, 
Where peace and love should reign and guide our 
councils ! 
Madame Barclay. [Caressing her.] Thou'rt ever like 
thyself, my Eleanor; 

[Anne prepares to write a letter; seats her- 
self at desk.] 
And now my daughter's answering her beloved, 
Touch thou thy violin to martial music 
And bear our spirits to the field of Mars. 



True and Tried 147 

Eleanor. Nay, Aunt, my heart is chorded with Grief's 
strings 
Today; with every joy-note comes a minor — 
A tone of fear that moans thro* all its rapture. 
Madame Barclay. [Soothingly.] Then play a dream — 
priere, romance — your choice, 
That shall most sweetly soothe my soul to prayer. 
Eleanor. Or charm thine eyes to slumber with its drear 
And tender monotone. [To herself.] What shall 
I play? [Rises and fingers the strings; tunes 
the violin.] 
Madame Barclay. Nay, dearest, sit thee here ; [Eleanor 
seats herself center.] thou'rt overwatched 
And tired with praying for thy Philip dear : 
I saw thee rise last night and kneel an hour. 
Eleanor. [Playfully.] O Auntie, who'd have thought 
that thou could'st pry 
Into my slumber hours? Belike thourt guilty 
Of shortening life by fleeing gentle sleep. 

Eleanor plays a dreamlike melody ; Madame 
B. sits at right, sewing ; Anne writing, oc- 
casionally directing her glance toward 
Eleanor. Music grows fainter and Eleanor 
falls asleep holding violin; bow drops to 
the ground. 
Madame Barclay. [Softly and rising.] Ah, sweet mu- 
sician, rosy Sleep hath charmed 
Thy eyelids to the fairy bowers of dreamland: 

[She picks up the bow.] 
If thou dost move thy instrument will fall ; 
I'll take it from thee. [Taking the violin, she lays 



148 Hearts of Gold, 

it gently on the table; caresses Eleanor, pass- 
ing her hand over her hair and pressing a kiss 
on her forehead, then seats herself at left with 
sewing, her back to Eleanor. Soft heavenly 
music begins, and Eleanor smiles in her sleep. 
Presently Madame B. folds her sewing, takes 
her rosary and prays, and Anne holds her pen 
and looks as if absorbed and far away. Both 
are unconscious of the vision which follows, 
and remain throughout with their backs to- 
ward Eleanor. Anne tries to write now and 
again, but pauses, leaning her forehead lightly 
on her hands; as the emotion deepens she as- 
sumes an attitude of prayer. 

Soft calcium lights are thrown upon the 
scene. Enter four Angels from rear center, 
clad in white, with gold circlets on their 
heads, the forward pair bearing, the one on 
the right a Cross, the one on the left a Lily. 
The two in the rear hold on high between 
them a beautiful golden crown, while in the 
free hand each bears a palm. They advance 
with slow, solemn dance step and graceful 
motions; when near Eleanor, those in the rear, 
pause, holding the crown directly over her 
head, while the two in front advance and con- 
gee to the sleeper, who leans forward smiling 
with joy; then these move a little to one side, 
right and left as before, and fixing a loving 
gaze upon Eleanor, the right-hand Angel 
holds forth to her view the Cross, at which 



True and Tried 149 

Eleanor takes on a look of intense pain; he 
withdraws it, and the left Angel holds forth 
the Lily for her acceptance, but Eleanor 
averts her face in great grief and makes a slow 
gesture of repulsion. Both Angels then turn 
front, raising their eyes and hands toward 
Heaven in prayer, while the rear Angels 
softly trip forward and hold the crown and 
palm to her gaze a few seconds; Eleanor leans 
forward, clasping her hands in ecstatic joy, and 
they, with eyes toward Heaven, dance back- 
ward and continue holding the crown above 
her head. Now the front right Angel turns 
toward her, again holding out the Cross; and 
Eleanor, with a look of heavenly resignation, 
reaches out her right hand toward it. The 
left Angel displays the Lily, and a rapt smile 
illumines her face as she extends her left 
hand as if to accept it. The Angels, smiling, 
with eyes fixed heavenward, go backward with 
graceful step and motions and disappear. 

Eleanor falls back slowly in her chair; the 
smile dies away, and she sobs and moans in 
her sleep J] 

Eleanor. [Still asleep.] O Auntie! [Sobs.] Auntie! 
[Madame B. starts up and puts her arm 
around her. Anne turns frightened from her 
writing.] Oh, I've had a dream! 
O Auntie — Anne — I've had a dreadful dream! 

Anne. [Trying to conceal her emotion.] A nightmare, 
darling. Dreams are nothing. Wake up, 



150 Hearts of Gold 



And think your Philip is a colonel. 
Eleanor. [Sadly.] Ah, 

Something is going to happen — some great sorrow, 
I know not what, dear Aunt. [Sinks back into the 
chair.] 
Madame Barclay. Come, little one, 

Put on thy sweetest smiles and loveliness, 
For Madame Carter will be here anon, 
To tell, no doubt, that she has word from Philip. 
Enter Dinah from left. 
Dinah. Missus, I seed Missus Carter over on de med- 
dur wid Mammy Julia. She mos' sholy stay 
fuh dinner. What we gwine ter hab? 
Abim'lech Jer'miah [Enter Abim. Jeremiah 
in rear] he done caught two 'possums, an' dey 
purty big an' 'licious — an' she lub 'em — an' 
Miss El'nor, too ; [Patting her cheek.] don't 
yer, now, honey? 
Enter Susannah — stands laughing with Abim. Jere- 
miah. 
Madame Barclay. Do what you please, good Dinah; 
use your skill and we shall give our guest a 
royal feast, and celebrate our absent soldiers' 
triumphs. 
Eleanor. And bring the grand old silver out, and moth- 
er's cut glass that's nigh a century old. 
Dinah. Des yo' heah young missus — he — he — he! O 
de table shine lak kings' when dey 'vite all de 
royumty of Europe. [Pushes Susannah out, 
Susannah pushing Abim. Jeremiah before 
them, procession-like.] 



True and Tried 151 

Dinah. [Starting back at the door.] O de Lawd o' 

mussy! heah Missus Carter; [Makes a low 

courtesy.] 'mornin', Missus. [Exit. 

Enter Madame Carter, panting. All hasten to greet 

her; Anne places chair. 
Eleanor. What joy your visit brings us! 
Madame Barclay. Yes, a day 

Of happiness to all. 
Anne. Dear mother, you 

Are tired and flushed. 
Madame Carter. Yes, flushed with pride and pleasure. 

I have a letter, Eleanor, Anne, from Philip. 
Madame Barclay. [Seating herself by her guest.] And 
we have letters, too, dear madame ; read. 

[Anne hands her the letters.] 
Madame Carter. Ah, then, my news is stale by one 
half hour. 
You know the secret, then, of his new honors. 

[Holding out letter to Eleanor.] 
Enter Dinah with refreshments. 
Eleanor. Yes, glorious for him and you, his mother. 
Anne. And George and William share his honors, see. 
[Taking letters gently from her mothers 
hand and opening them.] 
Eleanor. [Reads, Anne looking over her shoulder.] 
Ah, Washington, the high-souled, he knows how 
To recompense the brave. 

[They read in silence a few seconds.] 
Enter hurriedly Madame Burleigh and Phoebe. 
Madame Burleigh. [To Madame Carter.] Sister, you 
scarce had left the house when papers 



152 Hearts of Gold, 

Were brought [Hesitates.] and we — in haste have 
— followed you; 

[She opens the paper with trembling hands — 
Phoebe walks aside.] 
I cannot read it. Phoebe ! Oh ! [Hands paper to 
Phoebe and rushes to a chair sobbing. Eleanor 
snatches paper.] 
Eleanor. [Excited.] My dream! 

Oh, Philip's wounded unto death. 

[Falls back in chair — drops paper.] 
Madame Burleigh. [In loud voice and sobbing.] O 
grief ! 
I told you so — I told you so. — And George — 
Anne. [With frightened voice.] Give me the paper. 
[Reads tremblingly.] William — William's 
dead — 
O God! [She faints; much weeping and sobbing. 
Mammy Julia supports Anne; Phoebe brings 
glass of water and bathes her head or chafes 
her hands. Eleanor, strong, forgets herself 
and consoles Madames Carter and Barclay^] 
Enter Dinah, excited — pauses, looks around, and then 

laughs hysterically. They look at her in wonder. 
Julia. [In loud whisper.] Shut up yo' fool laugh, Di- 
nah. Don't yer see dis de house of mo'nin'? 
Dinah. [Shaking her hands excitedly and laughing ner- 
vously.] Fo' de Lord, Massa Philip's dere, 
comin' up de walk. 
Madame Carter. [Dazed.] Philip? [Each one echoes 

her word except Eleanor.] 
Eleanor. Are you crazy, Dinah ? [Runs to background, 



True and Tried 153 

where enter Philip, arm in sling; Eleanor 
falls into his arms weeping — he leads her up 
to front. Madame Burleigh stands speech- 
less.] 
Philip. [Embracing his mother with emotion.] 
Mother, my Eleanor and Anne, what's hap- 
pened, 
You all have tears for welcome? 
Madame Carter. [Sobbing.] We had heard 

That you were wounded unto death. 
Anne. [Coming to herself.] Where am I? 

What is't has happened? — William's dead! Oh! 

[Sobbing.] 
Philip. [Kissing her.] Dead? 

William? Why, Anne, he grasped my hand at 

parting 
And wished his arm or leg were wounded, so 
Himself might get a three days' furlough off. 
Madame Barclay. [Kneeling with clasped hands.] My 

God, I thank Thee! 
Anne. [Incredulously.] Is it true, — true, Philip? 
Philip. As true as that he loves you, and that you're 
His little wife. 

[Anne embraces Madame Barclay — they talk 
aside.] 
Madame Burleigh. [Her arm around Philip.] And 
our dear foolish George 
Is taken prisoner, dying of starvation — 
Perhaps he's shot, or hanging on a scaffold — ■ 
Philip. [Interrupting.] Not he, dear Auntie mine; he 
lay one day 



154 Hearts of Gold, 

In a vile prison ship — [Laughing.] but some 

brave Briton, 
A colonel of some influence, who said 
He knew our place and had been here, pleaded 
His youth and he was instantly released. 
Madame Carter. [Moved.] My son, give me that 
colonel's name that I 
May put it in my prayers. 
Philip. His name, I think, [Madame Bur- 

leigh leans forward intensely excited.] 
Was Lovelace — yes, Sir Thomas Lovelace. 

[Phoebe exchanges glances with Madame B., 
who presses her hand.] 
Madame Carter. I 

Have never heard that name. Belike some friend 
Of your dead father's. 
Philip. But George says this man 

Is young and handsome. And he played the host 
Most like a father — led him to his tent, 
And after some two hours of pleasant converse, 
Sent him to us in charge of his own guard. 

[Anne and Madame Carter converse aside.] 
Eleanor. But your poor arm, dear Philip? 

What torture you have suffered! 

[All show sympathy.] 
Philip. [Laughing lightly.] Nay, 'tis naught — 

A scratch: I'll fight the British in a week. 

[Drawing out his sword.] 
Eleanor. [Kissing sword.] O dear Excalibur! shine 
thou with hope 



True and Tried 155 

And fail not! [Playfully shaking her finger at it.] 
Guard thy knight unto the end! 
[Eleanor talks aside, center, with Philip; 
Madame Carter presently joins them; 
Anne with Madame Barclay, right.] 
Madame Burleigh. [Left, aside to Phoebe, whose hand 
she clutches convulsively.] O Phoebe, com- 
fort my o'erburdened soul! 
My name will be a black memorial 
Of infamy to all. 
Phoebe. [Tenderly.] O never, madame ; 

They know naught of thy sin. 
Madame Burleigh. I writhe in torture — 

Lovelace will secret be unto the jaws 
Of death ; he's noble, see — he saved our George. 
O Phoebe, pledge your solemn word to me — 
So God may help you at your hour of need, 
That never shall my crime escape your lips. 
Phoebe. [Pressing her hand between her own.] I 
pledge my love — that's stronger far — my lips 
Shall never ope except to bless and praise 
My kindest friend on earth. 

Madame Burleigh. [Overcome with emotion.] God 
bless thee, angel! 

[Exit Madame B.; Philip approaches Phoebe 
— they talk aside.] 

Enter Dinah. 
Dinah. [Aside to Anne.] De dinnah um waitin'; it be 

stun col', honey. 
Julia. [To Anne.] Massa Philup, he gittin' pale; he 



156 Hearts of Gold, 

goin' faint luk yo' in dese yere arms. 'Pears 
to me he starved. 
Dinah. Yes'um, I mos' sholy knows dey don' hev nuf- 
fin' to eat in dem camps o' our'n. Dem Brit- 
ishers dey gobble up ev'yting. 
[Anne speaks aside to Madame Barclay. 
Susannah runs in — hides behind Julia.] 
Susannah. [In loud and excited whisper.] Massa 
Philup, he goin' eat 'Bim'lech Jur'miah's 
two 'possums — he! he! he! won't he be 
glad ! [Runs off the stage.] 
Madame Barclay. [Approaching center.] Now to our 
homelike feast of thanksgiving 
With all my heart's best welcome. With Mac- 
beth, 
"Now good digestion wait on appetite, 
And health on both." And our brave Colonel 

Philip 
Our toasts shall challenge in the oldest Port. 
Eleanor. [Smiling.] And we shall hear his tales of 
chivalry, 
The deeds of this, his terrible right arm — 
Of midnight raids — and, best of all, unto 
Our woman's ears, heroic sacrifices 
By maids and matrons for our glorious cause. 
Madame Carter. And Washington's resplendent vir- 
tues told 
By thee shall lift us to the starry spheres. 
Philip. [Joyously.] 'Twill be "a feast of reason and a 
flow 
Of soul," while I shall hear our maids and matrons 



True and Tried 



157 



Breathe their own patriotism in my heart, 
And tell me all the news of Carterville. 
Oh, not a shadow float above these hours 
To mar their fleeting, sovereign happiness ! 
Tableau — Curtain. 

Act IV. 

Scene I. — Madame Carter s home. Ele- 
gantly furnished room; table right center, on 
which Philip's sword is lying. Madame Car- 
ter weeping; Father Richdale seated near her. 
Madame Carter. I thank thee, Father, for thy gentle 
comfort. 
My boy went forth to die — but yet 'tis bitter; 

[Lifting the sword reverently.] 
He bore his father's sword that had begun 
To cleave the way for Freedom's mighty coming. 
Father Richdale. Twice blessed with heroes' blood, it 
hath returned 
A priceless relic for your heirs to come. 
Madame Carter. We thought with our great double 
victory 
At Yorktown and the Chesapeake, the war 
Was well nigh ended ; and Hope fed my heart 
Daily with sight of him; now, crushing blow! 
My Philip's fallen, not by enemy's sword, 
But by a careless accident in camp. [Weeps.] 
Father Richdale. The more mysterious the ways of 
God 
The more they claim our reverence, good madame. 
Enter Eleanor in background. She pauses irresolute. 



158 Hearts of Gold 



Madame Carter. His gentle Eleanor so proudly girt 
The sword upon her hero. 

[Eleanor advances slowly.} 
Thou must break 
This sorrow unto her. [Rising.] She comes — 

I must 
Away. 
Eleanor. [Pausing.] Ah, weeping, madame? What 

hath chanced? 
Madame Carter. [With effort.] My dearest, haste 
and greet good Father Richdale. [Exit. 

Eleanor. Thou'rt welcome, Father mine. I pray 

[Kneels.] thy blessing. 
Father Richdale. [Rising.] The Almighty Father, 
power divine, the Son, 
The Holy Ghost, the Comforter, bless thee, 
My dearest child, with all their threefold gifts. 
[Eleanor, rising, gazes on the table; raises the 
sword — turns toward priest uncompre- 
hending.] 
Eleanor. Father, — my Philip's sword? — Excalibur? 

[He looks away.] 
Oh, — tell me not — he is not dead ? 
Father Richdale. [Approaching her and laying his 
hand on her shoulder.] Poor child! 
Wilt thou not bow unto God's will ? 
Eleanor. [Dazed and sobbing.] Dead, Father? 
Father Richdale. [With emotion.] Yea, child, he died 

a hero. 
Eleanor. [Perplexed — unnatural voice.] Dead? Nay, 
nay, 



True and Tried 159 

It cannot be ; unsay the words, my Father ! 
Father Richdale. Alas ! 'tis true, dear child. 'Tis grief 
on grief 
Unto his mother, yet she bears it bravely. 
Eleanor. [Sobbing.] Where can I comfort find ? Life 
was so sweet — 
A path of flowers to walk with him the way 
To Heaven. — And now all's dark. Oh, who will 

light 
My way? 
Enter Madame Carter in background. Listens with 

emotion. 
Father Richdale. He who hath cast the shadow o'er 

Thy path. — He who hath wounded heals the heart. 
Eleanor. [Drawing sivord from sheath.] O sacred 
sword, hast thou come back without 
Thy master ? — Then behold, all earthly ties 
I cut. — Sorrow shall be my only spouse. 

[Madame Carter advances.] 
Father Richdale. My child, be comforted: he died a 
victor. 
The end at hand — the wreath of glory his, 
He died just as fair Freedom's chains fell off, 
And she all clad in beauty walked our hills. 
Eleanor. [Turning and leaning on Madame Carters 
shoulder.] Madame, my dream! I told it 
thee. — The Cross [Weeps.] 
Hath come to me : — I kissed it in my dream. 
An Angel brought it, Father. 
Father Richdale. [Moved.] Ah, my child, 

Kiss it with love. Thy Saviour brings it now. 



160 Hearts of Gold, 

Eleanor v [Perplexed.] But, Father mine, another 
beauteous Angel 
A Lily brought, and in my dream I pressed 
It to my heart. Canst thou interpret dreams, 
My Father? Say, what did it mean? 
Father Richdale. [Hesitating.] Perchance 

My child, since thou hast ever been a lily, 
Sending its fragrant purity to God, 
He asks the Lily of virginity. 
Eleanor. [Fervently.] And He shall have it. There 

is naught — 
Madame Carter. [Taking her hand.] My child, 

Make no rash promise in thy grief. Let's bear 
Our loss together like brave women. Father, 
I leave her to your tender ministry. [Exit. 

[Eleanor stands gazing on the sword, puts her 
hand to her head as if trying to realize her 
loss , then turns to Father Richdale.] 
Eleanor. Come, Father, down the garden ; speak to me ; 
My heart is dumb ; and all the world seems dead. 

[Exeunt, right. 

Scene II. — The same. Enter Anne with 
open letter, weeping; advances toward table. 
Enter Madame Burleigh, left. 
Anne. O Philip darling! [Sobs.] My brave brother 

gone? 
Madame Burleigh. Yes, this accursed war is killing all 
our noble boys. My handsome Philip ! If he 
had only listened to me, he would be here 
today. 



True and Tried 161 

Anne. [Choked with sobs.] O Auntie, an early and 
glorious death is better than a cowardly life. 

Madame Burleigh. We needed Philip — splendid, manly 
fellow — my generous god-child. Oh, I shall 
go mad! [Runs out, right.] 
Enter Julia from left. 

Julia. O Miss Anne, de lille boy wot I nussed — he 
gone forebber! Oh — oh — oh! I can't stan' 
it. No such young gelman in de col'ny. Oh, 
he de sunshine an' light ob his po' Mammy 
Julia's eyes. Oh! Oh! [Covers her face 
with her apron and sobs aloud.] 

Anne. [Soothingly.] Yes, mammy, we all have sweet 
memories of him; every one on the estate is 
in grief today. 

Julia. Yo' bar up wonderful, honey, an' yo' his own 
brudder, too. 

Anne. Oh, Mammy Julia, it's hard — hard. 

[Exit, weeping. 

Julia. [Falling into a chair and rocking to and fro.] 
O Massa Philup!— O Massa Philup! 
Enter Dinah, weeping. 

Dinah. [Seating herself.] Yo' tink dey bring Massa 
Philup's body home, Julia? 

Julia. Cose not; we nebber [Sobs.] see his bressed face 
again; [Rocks to and fro.] Missus nebber 
git no mo' wuk out o' my Sambo; he jes' a 
layin' out dere on de flo' an' cryin' an' bawlin' 
fuh Massa Philup. 

Dinah. [Wiping her eyes.] I nebber did see de nig- 



162 Hearts of Gold, 

gahs so wild ; when his pa died dey no wuss. 
Who will tuk care o' de tings now ? 

Julia. Missus Burleigh los' her bes' frien'. I seed 
Massa Philup guv her de lille puss o' gold 
many's a time. 

Dinah. Po' lille Miss El'nor! She die o' 'sumption 
shore. 

Julia. An' po' lille George — all alone 'mong dem sav- 
ages and English tories. 

Dinah. An' all de pickaninnies dey jes' lub him, 
[Sobs.] an' Massa Philup so good ter 'em — 
an' ter us all. Oh — oh! [Crying.] 

Julia. [Looking off stage to rear, right.] Heah come 
po' Missus. [Both rise.] 

Dinah. [Softly.] Les' us jes' git out quiet, lak as if 
nuffin happened. Po' Missus! her heart done 
broke. [Exeunt together, right, sobbing — 
aprons to their faces and shoulders to the 
audience. 

Enter Madame Carter (before they have disappeared) , 
rear left, with face rigid and eyes fixed in anguish; 
walks slowly toward front — pauses half way with 
hands clinched by her side in agony. 

Madame Carter. [With lofty and repressed grief.] A 
mother — [Advances, gazes at sword.] must 
battle [Half sob.] with grief — [More and 
more tense and clasping her hands, her eyes 
raised heavenward.] alone — with God. [The 
last words with great anguish, throwing her- 
self on her knees, her clasped hands falling on 
the sword and her head resting on them.] 
Curtain. 



True and Tried 163 

Act V. 

Scene I. — Room in Madame Carter s 
home. Enter George and Phoebe, right; ad- 
vance to front center, talking, Madame Bur- 
leigh following. 

George. My little Phoebe, 'tis so good to see 

Your sweet face once again in added beauty. 
Phoebe. [Eyes downcast.] You flatterer! We missed 
you sadly, too ; 
And Philip dear. Alas, poor Eleanor! 
George. [Thoughtfully.] So strange, mysterious a dis- 
pensation ! 
He seemed to bear a charmed life in battle — 
Phoebe. [Interrupting.] 'Twas Prayer that wove a 

net of magic round him. 
George. 'Tis true, for thro' the war but one slight 
wound 
In his left arm he suffered. 'Twas a shell 
That burst [Madame Burleigh shudders.] a 

little space from where he stood, 
An accident — just as he heard Cornwallis 
Had yielded up his sword, his troops, his fleets 
To Washington — the final victory. 
Madame Burleigh. [Sobbing.] Your mother's heart is 
broken — for you know 
She urged and goaded him to battle. 
George. Mother 

Weeps still, dear Aunt, 'tis true. How could she 

help it 
For such a son as Philip? But her pride 



164 Hearts of Gold, 

In his high courage and undying fame 
Is now her comfort. 
Phoebe. Yea, when first she met you, 

So long, long sundered from her side, and Philip 

Was your most princely theme, I noted well 

As each quick tear coursed down your mother's 

cheek, 
How joy in Philip's glory dried it. And 
A smile of heavenly beauty lit her face. 
Madame Burleigh. George, Phoebe, do employ your 
best persuasion 
To draw poor Eleanor Montrose from her folly: 
Long time hath passed since Philip went to 

Heaven, 
And yet she broods and prays each livelong day ; 
She surely cannot sorrow like your mother, 
Who hides it always 'neath a cheerful face. 
Enter Eleanor, pearl rosary in hand, with Madame 

Carter. 
Phoebe. [Impetuously.] Our Eleanor is a girl of com- 
mon sense 
As well as piety ; she never will 
Immure herself within a nunnery. [Phoebe places 
chair for Madame Carter, while Eleanor 
greets George.] 
Eleanor. George dearest, welcome home ! A thousand 
thousand 
Welcomes — although our joy is bathed in tears. 
George. [Tenderly.] Yes, Eleanor, when we think of 
one whose heart 
Had bounded at this glad reunion. 



True and Tried 165 

Eleanor. George, 

Thou'lt speak to me of him another time. 
Mar not the day's joy. Speak of Washington. 

George. [With glowing face.'] Great theme! I would 
you could have seen and known 
Our Washington. Oh, there in Valley Forge 
His heart was wrung; and I have seen him go 
Out to the silent forest and there kneel 
Choked with emotion, praying for his country. 

Madame Carter. 'Twas well for us we had a General 
Who prayed and put his trust in God. 

George. One night 

We sat in camp, our General told us stories 

Of his good mother, [Caressing Madame Carter.] 

Mary Washington, 
That thrilled my heart, nor longer could I wonder 
At the son's lofty principle and virtue. 

Phoebe. But, George, how did you officers and men 
Bear up in the farewell of your great idol? 

George. Ah, 'twas the saddest scene I've ever known. 
I never saw our William so affected. 

Eleanor. Yea, William told it us. No words could 
paint 
Its grandeur and its pathos. Ah, poor soldiers, 
God's blessing be upon them ! 

George. There they stood, 

Ragged and destitute, in anger 'gainst 
Congress that could not help them in that hour. 
But when they looked upon his noble face 
That would have graced a Roman Senate, oh, 
'Twas all forgot! I've seen that face illumined, 



166 Hearts of Gold 



Transfigured with the genius of the man ; 
But it was naught to that last moment when 
Affection, triumph of God's power creative, 
Rose to his lips and looked from tear-wet eyes. 
And then a giant form broke thro' the ranks 
And almost sobbed: "Farewell, my General!" 
Order forgot, they rushed from line and crowded 
Around him, covering his hands with tears 
And sobbing their good wishes and farewell. 

Madame Burleigh. [Sneeringly.] O yes, he's gained 
their hearts and rules them well. 
I prophesy he'll be King George the First 
Of your United States. 

Phoebe. [Emphatically.] Nay, never, madame! 

George Washington's too great to stoop to that. 

Enter hastily Madame Barclay, William and Anne; 
Anne rushes to George and embraces him. 

Anne. Well, George, my darling, safe at last and 
home — 
Spite of our fears and all the ill reports; 
And you've grown older, but [Laughing.] you're 
just as handsome. 

Madame Burleigh. [Left, to William.'] With all my 
heart I greet you, Colonel Barclay. 
I'm glad that youve come back alive to be 
A comfort to your mother and to Anne. 

Phoebe. Thank all the Angels, William, whom your 
wife 
Has sent to be your body-guard each day, 
That your glad laugh is heard in Carterville 
Again. 



True and Tried 167 

William. [Laughing.] Yes, yes, my penitent Anne 
knew well 
I merited a multitude of prayers 
For all my trembling supplications which 
She slighted. 
Anne, [Laughing and pouting.] O you naughty man! 
How dare 
You tell such tales? [Shaking her finger at him.] 
I'll seal your lips to slander. 
William. I fear you'll have to seal them often now, 

Or there will be domestic war, my love. 
Anne. Well, dear, I've left one stick of sealing-wax 
From scores of letters I have had to write ; 
Now it will do for lips instead of letters. 
William. O cruel little sweetheart! We shall see. 
[Kisses her — Anne runs away and talks to 
George.] 
Madame Barclay. [Holding William's hand.] 'Tis 
like a dream that thou art safe returned; 
Thro' all these fearful years no wound. Oh, God 
Is good to me! 
William. [Jovially.] Yes, bones are all intact; [Anne 
listening.] 
Only a trifling rheumatism to claim 
Your willing mother cares. 
Anne. Nay, William, I 

Am young and strong : mother can pet you, while 
I rub your aches away. 
Enter Madame Carter and Father Richdale, followed 
at a distance by Julia, who stands left rear; Dinah 
and the children enter at intervals, one by one, and 



168 Hearts of Gold, 

all remain happy and quiet in background during 
the scene. 
Anne. A greeting, Father Richdale. [All bow or cour- 
tesy.] 
Madame Carter. [Looking around.'] Greet him fair; 
Good Father Richdale's come ten miles today 
To welcome our returning patriots. 
Father Richdale. \_To William and George, one on 
each side.] God bless you, soldiers, heroes in 
our cause; 
Your heart's best wishes be with you forever ! 

[Taking their hands and joining them in 
front of him.] 
God bless these brave hands that have wrought 

for us 
Our fettered country's freedom — made of her 
A nation that shall rise and spread her wings 
From ocean unto ocean. And the peoples 
Of all lands shall make haste to build their homes 
Within her bosom ; and the God of peace 
Shall in a thousand arched temples, reared 
By Faith and Love's high-reaching energies, 
Be worshipped until Time shall be no more. 
Madame Carter. Amen, amen unto your prophecy ! 
Eleanor. Fulfilled it shall be, for the land is sown 

With martyrs' blood that shall grow goodly fruit. 

[William leads priest to chair, and talks to him aside.] 

Madame Carter. [To Madame Barclay.] I almost 

envy you today, dear friend; 

My loss bites keener now when all is over. 

Madame Barclay. [Looking at George, who is leaning 



True and Tried 169 

over Phoebe's chair J] Be comforted ; you have 
another son 
And he will bring to you a lovely daughter. 
George. [Laughing.] Alas ! in spite of my full-fledged 
mustache 
I never shall be manly like her Philip : 
I'm doomed forever to be "little George." 
Madame Carter. [Tenderly,] Dear George, — but 

Philip was your father's namesake. 
George. [Fervently.] I'll strive to be as good a son, 

my mother. 
William. [Eleanor listening with intense interest,] 
Ah, madame, all that a great General 
Could give of praise and honor, yea, even tears, 
He gave to Philip, mourning for your sake 
His sad untimely death. 
Eleanor. God's peace unto 

Our noble dead ! 
William. And now let us believe 

He looks from Heaven [Eleanor takes his arm 
and looks up into his face.] upon our happy 
meeting : 
And time will heal thy deep wound, gentle cousin, 
Eleanor. O never, William, too profound it is: 
Eternity's own hand alone hath power 
To bind the broken pieces of this heart. 
But there are statues in king's palaces 
Which only serve to please the prince's eye ; 
And I shall be a poor dumb statue, blind 
With many tears, and plead and praise alike 
As dead to all desire. 



70 Hearts of Gold 



Father Richdale. But God can quicken 

The statue into warm and radiant life. 
Anne. [Caressing her.] Darling, our love will hold 
thee with its chains 
Of gold and pearl ; and we shall make thee queen 
By this most gentle tyranny of ours. 

[Eleanor smiles sadly and shakes her head.] 
Madame Barclay. Brave Colonel, say, where is that 
flag you waved 
While the proud Liberty Bell gave forth its peals 
[Exit William in haste, bowing. 
To tell the world Columbia was free ? 
Madame Carter. [Rising.] Star-spangled banner! 
Re-enter William with flag — unfurls it. 
Yea, unfurl its folds: 
For ages yet to come, on land and sea, 
The breezes shall play round it lovingly. 
William. O glorious Stars — type of our proud Thir- 
teen; 
O Bars — red, white and blue — I fling ye forth ! 
And here I prophesy that ere old Time 
Shall make a century's stride adown the future, 
Thrice multiplied shall be thy galaxy 
Of starry States, self-ruled in happy freedom, 
Beneath their chosen Chief and blessed by God. 
Father Richdale. Let us salute our glorious Flag, my 
children ; 
Your voices raise to Heaven — a God Save Our 
Land." 
All stand , forming a varied and beautiful tableau, and 
sing in chorus: 



True and Tried 171 

Hail, Flag! of freedom type, 
Hail each fair Star and Stripe 

That guards our strand! 
Float over land and sea, 
Tell thou a nation's free; 
While all hearts turn to thee, 

God save our land! 

O God! to Thee we bow, 
One are Thy people now 

In heart and hand ! 
Send down Thy sun and rain, 
Gild Thou our harvest plain, 
Drive foes far o'er the main, 

God save our land ! 

Our maids and matrons be 
Mirrors of purity, 

Of virtues grand! 
O let our banner wave 
O'er heroes loyal, brave! 
When furled above our grave, 

God save our land! 

Curtain. 



THE CHURCH'S TRIUMPH 



111 



Allegorical Characters. 

Church, attended by Faith, Hope and Chanty, Stand- 
ard-Bearer, with Joy and Fervor, and four 
Angels. 

Nature, attended by four Fays. 

Virtue. 

Poesy. 

Art. 

Song. 

Beauty. 

Science. 

Philosophy. 

Power, attended by two Heralds. 

Fame. 

Time. 

Costumes. 

Church is robed in flowing white, with cross on 

breast, and crowned with thorns; she bears a 

golden sceptre and key. 
Faith, in white robe, bears a gold cross. 
Hope, in pale green, with silver anchor. 
Charity, in white, with soft red drapings; bears a 

flaming heart. Each wears a crown of gold. 
Angels, in flowing white robes. 
Standard-Bearer, with his attendants, Joy and 

Fervor, in gold and white. 
Nature, in robe of white adorned with flowers, over 

which is a full training mantle of pale green ; 

crown of roses, and sceptre twined with buds. 
Fays, in fairy costumes of varied tints. 






Virtue, in loose robe of white trimmed with silver; 
silver girdle and silver bands on hair. 

Beauty, Song, Poesy, and Art, respectively, in pale 
blue, lavender, pale pink, and white, with trim- 
mings and drapings at choice. Poesy bears a lyre, 
and Art a pallette. 

Philosophy, in robe and toga of white and gold. 

Science, robe of white, toga of gray; bears a little 
lamp, with which he peers about. 

Power, in royal robes of velvet and ermine ; crown of 
gold and jewels, sword by his side. His heralds 
bear flags. 

Fame, in brilliant hues, with large silver trumpet; he 
bears on his arm several laurel wreaths. 

Time, in gray robe, draped with sombre red or black ; 
he bears a scythe and an hour-glass. 






THE CHURCH'S TRIUMPH 

Scene. — A beautiful grove, in the mid- 
center of which is a flowery eminence, embow- 
ered in vines or bushes; at left of stage is a 
rural throne for Nature. 

Nature. [Seated on throne with attendant fays.] 
A glorious reign is mine — queen over all 
Creative hand hath formed ; no rival I — 
My subjects all that walk the earth, or swim 
The ocean-stream, or float thro' azure skies. 
The seasons, glorious in living hues, 
Or terrible, with fiery sword outflashed, 
Girded with crystal chains, or tempest-winged 
Are mine: the splendent lights that hang in space 
Are kindled for my pleasure: dews and rains 
Conspire at my command with the rich warmth 
Of glowing suns, to fill my lavish hand 
With gifts of life and healing for mankind 
And myriad lesser beings whom I feed. 
Nay, more, I nourish souls with all delight 
Of beauty, knowledge, that to higher lead. 
And Time, the hoar destroyer, too, is mine, 
For when my knell hath sounded, he shall fall. 

Enter Beauty. 
I welcome thee, fair child, unto my bowers 
And pleasant haunts. Wilt tell me who thou art? 



178 The Church's Triumph 

Beauty. Great queen, they name me Beauty; I was 
born 
Amid the golden clouds of morning ; fed 
Upon the dew from lilies' hearts; the rose 
Hath lavished all a season's bloom to weave 
My mantle ; when I step abroad, behold ! 
All flowers come forth in lovely families 
And plead — "O Beauty, take us to thy heart!" 
Bright singing birds come perch upon my hand ; 
Rich palaces ope wide their doors to me, 
And men and women bow before my feet. 

[Taking Nature's hand.] 
I love thee, too ; thou'rt very beautiful. 
Enter Science, right. 

Nature. And whence com'st thou, with penetrating eye 
And brow of thought and glittering lamp upheld? 

Science. My journey hath been long: amid the seers 
Of far Chaldea in earth's morning I 
My glimmering lamp held to the darksome 

heavens. 
By Ptolemy's side I watched ; and down the years 
With Galileo, Kepler, Herschel, walked: 
I've trod the lightning — brought it down to play 
With men in light, and warmth and pleasant 

speech : 
Crowned me with weeds that in mid-ocean grew; 
Clothed with unnumbered ages this rare earth 
Delving amid its rocky records deep. 
I've knelt beside Linnaeus 'mid his gorse; 
Severed the elements — a thousand times 
Been sung by Fame, while showering on the world 



The Church's Triumph 179 

More blessings than it dreamed of. 

Nature. Yea, 'tis true, 

My hidden treasures thou hast brought to light. 

Beauty. [Frowning.] But she has trampled on my 
rights: in sunsets 
Which I have painted with divinest tints 
She only sees earth's cast-off vapors ; why, 
The perfume of the blue-eyed violet 

[Nature caresses her.] 
She'd ruthless tear into a thousand parts 
Of hard-named elements known but to her. 

Science. [Bowing to Beauty.] Nay, lovely angel, over 
Fancy's realm 
Thou rulest; I o'er Reason's large domain. 
The phantoms of the brain, albeit fair, 
Nor cunning senses thrilled by light and sound 
Can pierce to hidden causes : I must bear 
My lamp of Truth thro' thy enchanted bowers, 
Albeit I grieve thee, lady. Yet too dim 
This little light to scan the mysteries 
Above, around, beneath. — My heart is sore 
With doubt of twilight revelations. I 
Would have a blazing sun to guide my steps. 
Enter Poesy, left. 

Nature. But see! a nymph with lyre and laurel wreath, 
And "eye in a fine frenzy rolling." 

Beauty. Ah ! 

It is my friend and sister, Poesy. 

Poesy. Yea, prophet of the Beautiful am I : 
Deep have I drunk of the Pierian spring; 
Danced with the Muses on the Olympic mount ; 



180 The Church's Triumph 

With fauns and dryads thro' Dodona's groves 
I wandered, led by Homer, Pindar, Keats: 
But purer wine of inspiration I 
Poured in the living song of Israel 
When David smote the lyre. With robe un- 
scathed 
I've walked beyond the ''hopeless gate" — thro' 

fires 
Unquenchable — "a universe of death": 
I've mounted eagle-eyed to Paradise 
By Dante's side. Thro' Fancy's flowery land, 
Thro' tragic splendors strewing History's path, 
The Bard of Avon bore my banner : sad 
I crowned the brows of woe-baptized Tasso ; 
In tender arms I nursed the constant one, 
Whom Angelo named "divine" — the fair Colonna; 
And o'er late centuries whose firmament 
Is bright with stars of varying lustre, 
I come to place a new star in my heaven. 
I come to lay upon the brow of the world 
My crown of laurel o'er his crown of thorns — 
Immortal Leo, with heart dropping blood 
And prophet eye, where Triumph rides sublime* 

Nature. [Embracing Poesy.] Thou'rt welcome to my 
heart — as dear to me 
As soft-eyed Beauty. [Music heard in distance.] 
List! 
[Enter Song, dancing and singing.] 

Song. Tripping over the hills I come, 
My full heart breathing in melody : 
Love-lorn zephyrs with murmurs low 



The Church's Triumph i8r 

And fountains and birds rejoice with me. 
All things beautiful hear my voice : 
May's fair blossoms spring 'neath my feet; 
Autumn blushes 'mid harvest dews, 
And stars smile down on my message sweet. 
Poesy. Say, who art thou, 

lovely, sweet-voiced lady? Tell us. 
Song. [Laughing.] Nay, 

My speech is song: list thou and I will tell. 

[Sings.] 

1 am the Spirit of Song, of Song! 
Mortals bow at my witching strains; 
Power and Glory my path pursue, 
And Fame is caught by my airy chains. 

Nature lovely [Courtesies to Nature.] is still my 

theme ; 
Yet over the stars my note doth soar ; 
I catch the hymning as Angels sing 
Where waves of music roll evermore. 
[Nature embraces her as Power enters with haughty 
air and thundering step, accompanied by heralds 
bearing banners.] 
Power. [Drawing his sword.] Who wakes the echoes 

in my green domains? 

[Song, Beauty, and Poesy flee tremblingly to the rear.] 

Nay, flee not, Song ; thou'rt for my pleasant hours, 

When thro' the world my sword hath won its way ; 

[To Beauty.] Shrink not, O Beauty, thou shalt 

be my queen. 
[To Poesy, who is leaning on Nature.] Thy 

golden lyre full glorious themes shall have 



182 The Church's Triumph 

When red-eyed Mars hath laid his trophies down. 
[With threatening glance toward Nature. ,] 
Yea, even Nature shall my subject be; 
I'll mar her ancient temples at my will. 
[Nature rises from her throne, and with indignant as- 
pect and hand haughtily extended essays to speak, 
but is interrupted by the sound of trumpets herald- 
ing Fame's advance. Power stands looking defi- 
ance at her, then turns with commanding air to 
right.] 
Power. But see — advancing Fame, my thrall, with 
blare 
Of trumpets! 

[Nature leans against center mound.] 
Enter Fame, right, bearing wreaths. 
Fame. [Approaching Beauty and Poesy.] I crown thee 
Queen of Beauty; [Crowns her.] and thou, 
too, 
Fair Poesy, hast won my triumph wreath. 
[Crowns her and attempts to crown Song; 
but Power strides forward in anger and 
thrusts his sword between Fame and Song: 
the latter flees to rear.] 
Power. [To Fame, sheathing his sword.] Say, minion, 
what hast thou to do with wreaths 
For alien brows? Crown me, the lord of all 
These puny weaklings. — Dost thou hesitate ? 
Obey! [Nature retreats behind knoll.] 
Fame. [Drawing back with dignity and holding 
wreaths on high.] Crown deeds of blood? — 
Throw down thy sword! 



The Church's Triumph 183 

This is no time for savage conquerors : 
My bays and olives are for meek-eyed Peace. 
Tread not the people 'neath thine iron heel ! 
Disband thine armies : raise the nations up ; 
Be true and brave by lofty thought — by deeds 
Magnanimous; and onward, upward lead 
The wounded manhood crouching at thy feet, 
Till, nursed by peace and plenty, loyal, free, 
Thy people be a race of uncrowned kings. — 
Look for my laurel — then! [Holding it up and 
turning away.] 

Power. [Flashing out his sword.] Nay, dastard, thou 
Shalt herald me to ages yet unborn. [Exit, left. 
Enter right, Art, with palette and brushes. 

Poesy, [Embracing Art.] O beauteous nymph, thou'rt 
welcome as the dawn 
To eyes by spectral horrors frighted. 

[Beauty embraces Art, and Science looks up frown- 
ingly from a dissecting operation.] 

Nature. [At left front.] Hail, 

Thou gentlest of intruders! Tell us who 

Thou art, and whence thy princely step hath come. 

Art [To right.] I stood with Phidias in the Parthe- 
non: 
I wrought the golden-pillared miracle 
Of Juda's king, with ark and cherubim : 
Apelles' hand I guided ; subtly drew 
His colors from rich Nature's willing heart. 

[Bowing to Nature.] 
Noblest of spirits have my presence wooed ; 
Raphaels and Titians and Angelicos 



184 The Church's Triumph 

First won my smile, then won the applauding 

world. 
I make hearts beat in stone, and passion's flame 
Break out anew. Moses in marble speaks 
At order of an Angelo. — Alive 
O'er the blue waters stands fair Liberty, 
With a whole people's soul within her breast, 
Aud lures the nations to her cordial shores. 
But ah ! I have a Queen whose heavenly voice 
Makes music thro' the everlasting hills, 
Brings down diviner sunlight thro' my being, 
With mighty power transforms, transfigures me! 
Song. [Clasping hands with Beauty .] O tell us, who 
is she? — Nor need, for we 
Thy Sovereign own. 
Beauty. Long have we seen her feet 

Royal, all beautiful upon the mountains! 
Song. And we have thrilled the world and drowned 
the song 
Of silver-rolling spheres in her glad praise. 
Enter Philosophy, left, with scroll in hand. 
Nature. [Right, toward throne.] Behold a maid of 
solemn port and eye 
That peers thro' souls and seeks to rend the veil 
That hides all essence from a mortal's ken — 
Your elder sister, high Philosophy! 

[All courtesy.] 
Philosophy. [Left.] Yea, ye shall walk with me as 
those of old 
In groves of th' Academe with gold-mouthed 
Plato: 



The Church's Triumph 185 

I bear the silver key that doth unlock 

The inner rooms of Wisdom's seven-gate castle : 

The mysteries of being manifold, 

Time, space, and substance, attributes, ideas, — 

Of order, law, causation, destiny; 

I've thought and spoke since speech first floated 

forth 
Upon the winged silences of Eden. 
Here in the calm air of this tufted grove 
Descending spirits, girt with golden wings, 
May well be near us while we lift our thought 
And scan with Reason's eye the First Great Cause, 
Art. [Right.] O noble teacher, thou dost need the 
light 
Of my unerring Queen. 
Philosophy. [Left.] Fair nymph, thou dream'st! 

Unerring? To be mortal is to fail. 
Man's knowledge must be choked with weeds of 

doubt. 
The true Theology is throned in Heaven. 
But lo ! between yon mantling vines my child, 

Enter Virtue, right. 
My virgin pupil, white-browed Virtue! — Hail! 
[Stands back and scans her with awed sur- 
prise as the others greet her.] 
A nobler grace sits on thy stainless cheek; 
Thy forehead seems emblazed with some new sign : 
Thy very touch hath some infused power ; 
And all the air is sweet with purity. 
Where hast thou been? What learned? 
Virtue. [With profound courtesy.] My teacher, thou 



1 86 The Church's Triumph 

Full well the cardinal virtues me hast taught : 
But wandering sad one day, pursued by longings, 
In the green twilight of an antique forest, 
I met a royal nymph of angel beauty : 

[All listen with intense interest .] 
And, as she passed, beneath her printless feet 
Lilies and violets, roses, amaranth, 
Sprang into life ; and lovely flowering vines 
Hung garlands on the wrinkled boughs, that 

laughed 
With joy: the sun shot glorious arrows through; 
And ever and anon her scepter's touch 
Waked from their rocky sleep translucent springs. 
We neared a torrent flood whose crystal flow 
Was tinged with vermeil : by its mossy brink 
She leaned against a ruby rock that seemed 
Instinct with life, and throbbed like a great heart 
That with a world's woe might have burst: for 

deep 
Within its side a chasm bubbled o'er 
Fed by the flood below. 

Philosophy. Thy words amaze me ; 

Symbolical they are of mystery — 
Some lesson great, profound, they teach 

Virtue. 'Tis true; 

O noble mind, yet list : a little space 
Three beauteous nymphs circled in graceful dance 
Around her, while a host of viewless minstrels 
Cleft the gold air with melody. — Anon, 



The Church's Triumph 187 

With lowly majesty, she rose and touched 
The rifted rock, when, swift as summer lightning, 
Seven fountains shot their silver spray to Heaven 
And watered all the earth. — I bent my head, 
And, with myrrh-dropping hands, she laved me 

white, 
Then gave the vermeil draught ; and lo ! my soul 
Kindled to such a flame of sacred rapture 
That all my being turned to love. And there 
The air-built structure Pride had reared so high 
Fell flat, for now I clasped Humility. 

[Kneels with bowed head.] 
Enter Time, right, with scythe and hour-glass. All 
flee except Virtue, who stands boldly to the front 
and gazes fearlessly on him. Art tremblingly 
moves backward and pauses half way. 
Time. [Smiling grimly.] Mortals affrighted run be- 
fore my scythe: [Running his hand over the 

edge.] 
Tis sharp; and cuts alike the chaliced bud, 
Or yew that looked o'er graves a thousand years. 
[Turns to Beauty.] With unenchanted eye I gaze 

on Beauty : 
[To Science.] Science has no sure spell against my 

charm : 
Power [With scorn, while Power drops on one 

knee.] falls abject at my lightest blow. 
Empires I mow and [Stamping foot.] trample in 

the dust: 
Art, Poesy, and Song and Fame, I laugh at : 
Nay, when my sands are run, great Nature's self 






1 88 The Church's Triumph 

I'll strike and bury her beneath her stars. 

[Nature, appalled, falls back in anguish, supported by 
Poesy; fays encircle her. Music is heard.] 

Virtue. [Smiling.] But list! the music from her un- 
seen choir — 
The harbinger of our great Queen's approach. 

Enter Banner-bearer with Churches standard of white 
and gold held on high, the ribbons caught by two 
little girls, Joy and Fervor, in gold and white. 
Faith, Hope and Charity follow, hands twined, 
in wheel dance; then enter their Sovereign Lady 
the Church, guarded by Angels. The banner is 
borne to the right, while Faith, Hope and Charity 
pause at left. Church ascends the flowery emi- 
nence in center and stands there guarded by her 
angels. Music ceases as Faith begins to speak. 

Faith. Bow to our Sovereign Lady, Heaven-descended! 

[All bow with reverence.] 
Bow to the Holy Church, by seraphs tended ! 

Virtue. [With clasped hands.] Behold the unerring 
Teacher of my love! 

Nature. Say, who is this that cometh like the dawn, 
Fair as the silver moon, bright as the sun? 
[Re-enter Power, left, sword in hand.] 

Church. I am not of the world ; it crucified 

My Spouse, who left to me His crown of thorns 
And scepter: laid within my hand 
The key which opes the everlasting gates 
Where He in kingly state rains joy and peace. 
The treasures of His love are mine: freely 



The Church's Triumph 189 

As doth the sun, I give and never fail. 

[Power advances.] 
Tyrants have veiled my light in darksome caves, 
Where, o'er my children's martyr tombs, I raised 
The unspotted Sacrifice. False sons have striven 
In vain my seamless robe to part ; and Power, — 
[Looking sternly and sadly toward him.] 
Mail-clad, with robber hand, hath struck me oft; 
But with immortal vigor I arise 
From each new blow, with olive branch of peace. 
Come to me, O ye little ones, and drink 
The rivers of my sweetness ; ye shall be 
My missioners thro' earth's wide boundaries. 

[Turns to Nature.] 
O bounteous Nature ! thro' thy spacious meads 
And towering forests thou hast built for me 
Churches and cloisters where Art's glittering 

ranks 
Still mould fair pillared arches, and create 
O'er vault and gate and storied pane new forms 
That shall endure till Time's last deed be done. 
[Power frets and fumes.] 
Nature. Immortal Queen, that shalt survive my day, 
Receive the homage of my fealty ; 

[Kisses her hand.] 
My lands, my woody temples all are thine, 

[Power stamps in fury.] 
Each vale and dell shall yield its incense up : 
May's lovely nurslings and the crimson hearts 
Of June's bright arbors shall adorn thy shrines. 
[Nature's fays present bouquets to Church.] 



190 The Church's Triumph 

Art. [Laying down palette and brush.] O daughter of 
the Heavenly Architect ! 
Thou art my matchless inspiration ever ; 
With thee I win a crown of deathless bays. 
Church. [To Beauty.] Thou, Beauty, lovelier far 
within my courts, 
Dost add ethereal grace to all thou touchest. 
Beauty. [To Church.] Most beautiful of women, at 
thy feet 
I lay my trophies ; thou shalt consecrate 
The charms which win all spirits to my sway. 

[Power grows more restive; looks furtively 
with scorn at Church.] 
Church. [To Song.] O Song! while thou upon my 
heart dost lie, 
Thy voice doth take the note of Cherubim, 
And call them down to sing with thee. 
Song. [Courtesying.] Thy Spouse's praise is still my 
sweetest theme. 

[Sings. Power lays hand on sword.] 
O beautiful One! O Lily 'mid thorns! 
O Dove in the clifts of the rock, 
Thy voice is sweet and thy face all fair ! 
How beautiful is thy flock! 
Thou hast wounded His Heart, thy Kingly 

Spouse ! 
With thy eyes of love aflame ; 
And our hearts yield up their love to thee 
For the triumph of Jesus' Name. 

[She kneels and kisses the hand of Church, 
who caresses her.] 



The Church's Triumph 191 

Church. [To Poesy.] Thy lyre, O Poesy, [Takes 
lyre from her and raises it.] my fairest child, 

I have anoint unto all nobler uses ; 

For God and right, for Sorrow's comforter, 

For Virtue's champion and her peer, I bless thee, 

Thou wanderer thro' the vestibule of Heaven, 

Joy-bringer unto hearts of weary men! 
Power. [Sullenly, sword drawn. All are now fearless 
of him.] I tell thee, thou usurper, Poesy is 
mine, 

To sing my victories ; and Fame's my vassal, 

To sound my glories to posterity. 
Poesy. [ To Church, who now returns the lyre.] 

O higher than Aonian muse, to thee 

Alone, my heart, my lyre, I dedicate. 
Fame. [Laying down trumpet.] Thy spirit shall be in 
my voice ; thy name, 

O Church of God ! I'll bear on the four winds 

To ends of earth, thro' rolling ages. 
Church. Thou 

Shalt be my tendant, Fame, eternally. 
Science. My little lamp, I blow out, see ! 'tis thine, 

To reillumine with thy hallowed fires. 
Church. [Rekindling it.] Thy lamp shall be on golden 
lilies placed, 

Science, in my temple evermore! 
Philosophy. [Presenting scroll.] Queen of celestial 

wisdom, here I yield ; 

1 bow my intellect in fealty ; 

Forswear the pomp of schools to enter thine, 



192 The Church's Triumph 

guide infallible! A child again 

1 kneel — from thee would learn the path to 

Heaven. 

[Power looks half longingly toward Church, 
and lays hand on flags irresolutely.] 
Church. [Handing Cross to Philosophy.] Philosophy, 
thy heart shall be a fount 
Of living truth : thy lips a scarlet lace 
Dropping the honey of celestial doctrine. 
Virtue. [To Church.] Thou art my Mother! Love 

can say no more. 
Chruch. [Caressing her.] My best beloved! thou art 
my joy and crown. 

[Power moves forward, fluctuates a second, 
then whispers to herald, who lays the flags 
at feet of Church; Power helps to arrange 
them.] 
Poesy. O glorious triumph! 
Virtue. Prodigy of grace! 

Nature. Undreamed-of conquest! 

Church. [To Power.] O imperial Caesar! 

This is true glory ; now thou hast eclipsed 
All deeds heroic thou hast ever wrought 
Amid thy bright, embattled legions; for 
Thy victory is a godlike one — o'er self. 
Power. Angel of peace, unarmed deliverer 

Of groaning realms, I yield my sword — disband 
Mine armies at thy plea. 
Fame. Full nobly thou 

My wreath hast won on Passion s battle-ground. 
[Fame crowns him with laurel.] 



The Church's Triumph 



193 



Church. [Returning sword to Power with cross 
affixed to handle.] Thy sword, cross-mounted, 
now I give thee back: 
For God and Right, for Justice' guardian, 
For champion of the weak, I bless it ! 
Fierce War shall fly to his infernal home, 
And monarchs clasp the hand of amity : 
So shall the people of God's world of love 
Be gathered in one brotherhood of peace. 
Time. [Holding up glass and scythe.] My sands are 

nearly run ; my scythe is thirsty ! 
Church. Nay, envious Time, thy sands no measure 
have 
For my duration ; edgeless is thy scythe ; 

[Time goes backward — leans against a tree.] 
'Neath it shalt thou lie low, while I shall flourish 
In fadeless splendor thro' the eternal years! 



Tableau. 
Triumphal Song. 

Church. [Solo.] Sing, O my children, praise to God 
on high! 
Praise ye His mercy ever sweet and tender ; 
His be the glory, men and nations cry ! 
Saved by His Blood to Him our thanks we render. 
Praise ye the Lord — our Christ, our King! 
Bear ye His name to every age and nation. 
Hosanna ! Praise ye the Lord ! 
Bless Him whose Cross hath brought to us salva- 
tion. 



*94 The Church's Triumph 

Chorus. 
Hail, blessed Spouse of Jesus, Heavenly King! 
Pledge we our life and love to thee forever ; 
Crowned with His thorns and Cross, to thee we 

cling, 
Life, death, nor aught from thee our hearts shall 

sever. 
Praise we the Lord — our Christ, our King ! 
Bear we His name to every age and nation. 
Hosanna! Praise we the Lord! 
Bless Him whose Cross hath brought to us salva- 
tion. 
The hymn (to the music of "Palms," by Faure) should 
be sung with great recollection and devotion; all 
should make a reverence to Church at the opening 
line of Chorus. At the close a few bars of inter- 
lude are played while the procession is being 
formed. Power lifts flags — which Church blesses 
— and hands them to heralds: all three make a 
profound bow to Church, and turning lead the 
procession with slow steps. ( The Chorus is now 
repeated.) Fame follows. The order may be as 
outlined below for the three couples if their posi- 
tions at close should allow it. All should bow rev- 
erently to Church as they enter rank or pass before 
her. Virtue precedes Nature, two of whose fays 
walk backward scattering flowers in Church's 
pathway. Standard-Bearer, with Joy and Fervor, 
follows Nature. Faith, Hope and Charity, in wheel 
dance, precede Church, while an Angel walks at 
either side and two follow her. When the proces- 



The Church's Triumph 



195 



sion has passed away, Time, in despair, throws his 
glass to the ground, and falls backward, plunging 
his scythe into his breast. 



Order of Procession. 



Herald. 



Herald. 





Power. 




Fame. 


Science. 


Philosophy. 


Beauty. 


Song. 


Poesy. 


Art. 




Virtue. 


Fays. 


Nature. Fays. 


Joy. Standard-Bearer. Fervor. 



o 



Angel. 



Church. 
Angels. 



Angel. 



THE ANGELS' FEAST 



A Drama in One Act for Golden Jubilee. 

Scene within the Monastery. 

Angels of the Drama. 

Angel of the Altar, bearing Censer and Golden Vase. 
Guardian Angel of Sister Jubilarian, with Golden 

Cross. 
Angel of the Sacred Vows, with Silver Shield, Lily, 

and Wisp of Straw. 
Angel of Charity, with Flaming Heart. 
Angel of Kind Thoughts, with Jardiniere of Plants and 

Vines. 
Angel of Kind Words, with Basket of Flowers. 
Angel of Kind Deeds, with Basket of Fruit. 
Angel of Tears, with Silver Vase. 
Soul saved by Sister Jubilarian, with Lighted Candle. 

Music by Unseen Choir. 

The drama was composed in honor of Sister Mary 
Seraphina Trautman of the Visitation. 



THE ANGELS' FEAST 

Scene. — A room draped in white and gold. 
Palms and flowers disposed gracefully around. 
A statue of Blessed Lady or St. Joseph at one 
side of front center. On the other side, a little 
distant from the scene, the throne of Sister 
Jubilarian, rather low, so that she can step 
down with ease and enter the scene toward 
the close. In center of scene, a Prie-Dieu, 
draped in white and gold, with chair. 

Enter from rear to sound of music — "Hail to the 
Spouse of the Lord" — eight Angels by twos, hands 
joined, in slow dance step. When, the first couple 
are a little above the Prie-Dieu they loose hands, 
turn and congee to it; then, touching hands, they 
separate, going down the opposite side in dance 
step as before; the second couple advance and go 
through the same movement, and so on in single 
and double movements till the chorus is nearly fin- 
ished; then the Angel Guardian appears at left; 
with a movement of surprise and pleasure he looks 
around, and speaks just as music closes, and the 
tableau of Angels is formed. 

Hail to the Spouse. 
(Sung by unseen choir.) 
Hail to the Spouse of the Lord who cometh 
Crowned with the fruits of love! 



200 The Angels' Feast 

"Arise, my beloved, and haste!" He sayeth ; 

"My beautiful one, my Love!" 
Mingle your strains, O harps celestial ! 

Waft with our notes of praise 
Your harmonies up to the highest Heaven, 

Chanting her length of days ! 
Strength and beauty, the Spouse's clothing 

She sought with "the better part;" 
His "chains of gold" have wrought her glory, 

This "day of the joy of her heart." 
She found her Beloved among the lilies, 

Nor trembled at Calvary's gloom; 
Scatter her path with flowers unfading, 

In gardens of Heaven that bloom. 
Enter Angel Guardian. 
Hail to the Spouse of the Lord who cometh! 

His reign in her heart we sing; 
Waft our notes to the highest Heaven — 

Hail we her Spouse and King! 
Angel Guardian. What sweet surprise is this, O brother 

Princes ? 
Ye come to keep with rapturous song and gifts 
This golden festal of my mortal charge. 
Angel of the Altar. Yea, brother, 'tis a joy thou well 
dost merit; 
For nobly thou hast wrought with God His work 
In this created nature, from that morn 
In Reichelsheim, when, swift as ray of light, 
The fiat of Omnipotence sped forth 
A new soul to its earthly tenement, 
Till this fair day when threescore years and ten 



The Angels' Feast 2or 

Like jewels grace the temple of its Maker. 
Angel of Tears. I joy with thee, for thou hast made her 
life, 

Its hopes and fears, temptations, trials, pain, 

The seed of future glory. 
Angel of Charity. Happy guide! 

I, who have borne thee faithful company, 

May well my gratulations offer thee. 

With these, my loved compeers, I've watched thee 
train, 

From first to last, her heart in Virtue's school. 
Angel of Kind Thoughts. We who walked with her 
oft in stony paths, 

And up the mount, and o'er the desert plain, 

Have seen thee pouring streams of gladness o'er 

Her fainting spirit. 
Angel of Kind Words. And binding up her wounds 

When random arrows pierced her gentle heart. 
Angel of Kind Deeds. And when her hands grew weak 
with zealous toil, 

With promptitude celestial thou wert near, 

Her cares to soften and her labors share. 
Angel of the Vows. How shall / praise thee, guardian 
Prince of light? 

From that dark, living chaos of pollution, 

Where Ignorance and Vice reign tyrannous 

O'er millions of deluded votaries, 

Thou hast delivered her, and led her here 

"To breathe, to pant for her Celestial Spouse" — 

Her days a sweet novitiate for Heaven. 



202 The Angels' Feast 

Angel Guardian. My thanks are due, O ministering 
Spirits! 
After our Sovereign Lord, to each of ye. 
What marvels have ye wrought for my beloved! 
Speak, Angel of the Altar, thou, and tell. 
Angel of the Altar. When first thy lips dropped wis- 
dom to the ears 
Of her pure soul, and words of prayer came forth, 
I caught the living incense, [Raises censer.] and 

it rose 
Up to the throne of God and perfumed Heaven. 
So thro' the years, at morn and noon and eve, 
And thro' the hours, the sweet aroma ever 
Is stealing upward from my thurible, 
Then falls in silvery clouds of precious graces. 
And here the virginal chant of Mary's praise, 
Far-reaching, floats to our celestial choirs. 
But oh, within this golden vase, [Elevating it.] I 

treasure, 
Hid 'neath the veil of myriad lily Hosts, 
The radiant Majesty whom we adore. 
From that first day when, clothed in spotless white, 
A child before the altar, she in joy 
Tasted the sweets of this great mystery, 
Until this morning at the cloister grate, 
When we and countless choirs beside her stood, 
And saw the glory of this Jubilee — 
I've gathered in my casket thousand times, 
And tens of thousands still, the Sacred Species, 
All redolent of her abiding love; 
Then on the golden altar by the Throne 



The Angels' Feast 203 

I offered them with trembling awe to God 

'Mid worship of Heaven's prostrate hierarchies. 
Angel Guardian. [To Angel of Tears.] O brother 
Angel, whose high mission is 

To waft to bleeding hearts sweet sympathies 

And comforts, hast thou aught concealed of hers 

Within thy silver chalice ? 
Angel of Tears. Yea, bright Cherub; 

Here [Raising chalice.] pearls of price unvalued 
make day pale ; 

Tears of contrition o'er her daily falls; 

Tears for the sorrows of her Crucified ; 

Tears for the woes of sad humanity ; 

Tears of a grateful heart in thanksgiving; 

And tears, full human, when the Cross pressed 
hard. 

All these, ere thou could'st wipe away, I caught, 

And dropped in many a wailing home ; in paths 

Where rolled and danced Sin's mad procession on ; 

And oft I've strewn them o'er the vale of death. 

I need not tell ye wonders ye have seen — 

How hearts were comforted and sinners saved. 

O that a ray of light would but reveal 

To dovelike souls the power of holy tears! 
Angel Guardian. [To Angel of Charity.] Thou, 
Seraph of the highest Heavens, hast thou 

The name of my dear child recorded here? 

[Points to Heart.] 
Angel of Charity. Thou smiFst, for well thou know'st 
'tis graven deep 

Upon that Heart of which I bear the symbol. 



204 The Angels' Feast 

I've led her to that Sun of living love, 
And sought to gild her life with its bright rays : 
Upon her heart's well-cultured soil they fell, 
And warmed my tender seeds to beauteous being: 
So is her heart a garden for her Spouse. 

Angel of Kind Thoughts. And lo! I bring the precious 

roots and vines 
That sprung from out this garden fair; Kind 

Thoughts 
They are, that would not swerve aside to blame 
The faults, or judge the motives of a neighbor. 

Angel of Kind Words. The root and leafy stem and 

graceful vine 
Are but the prophecies of fairer growth : 
When, tinted with the hues of sunset, spring 
The blossoms, with their delicate, sailing cloud 
Of fragrance, how their loveliness is prized! 
And mortals cull them into rare bouquets 
And light their homes with them — and greet their 

friends, 
And, faded, press them for dear memories. 
These radiant flowers I carry are Kind Words, 
Whose office is to cheer the drooping world ; 
Their sweet breath lingers in the heart's deep 

chambers, 
Oft when the utterer's lips are sealed in death, 
And ope it to our heavenly inspirations. 

Angel Guardian. [To Angel of Kind Deeds.] Thy 
mystic symbol of ambrosial fruit, 
Where hast thou gathered ? Blest Archangel, say. 



The Angels' Feast 205 

Angel of Kind Deeds. Tis the rich harvest of Kind 
Deeds that dropped 
All gold and crimson, luscious to the taste, 
From trees luxuriant in that lowly garden : 
Kind Thoughts and Words that ripen into Deeds 
Are fit repast for Jesus' lips ; 'twas He 
That sowed the seed in holy Nazareth 
That since has fructified in all earth's climes. 
Kind Deeds are messengers of light and peace ; 
They walk the earth like presences immortal, 
And feel the touch of the creative hand — 
Touch infinitely tender! — that each step 
Drops blessings, oft true miracles. 

Angel of Charity. Dear Princes, 

The world of God is all of love ; the cloister, 
His paradise, where most He walks on earth. 
Unkindness an intruder is, a foe, 
Who would beat down His work in souls, 
And lay the heart all bare and desolate. 

Angel Guardian. [To Angel of the Vows.] Thou hast 
not spoken ; 'tis humility, 
Bright Angel of the Vows, whose place on high 
Is 'mong the Thrones, that keeps thee silent till 
Thy loved associates are heard. 

Angel of the Vows. When I, 

Amid the uncreated splendors, saw 
Thee yearn ineffably that my three gifts, 
The Lily of unspotted Chastity, [Displaying Lily.] 
The Poverty of Jesus [Holding up Straw.] and 

the strong, 
Bright Shield of true Obedience, should endow 



206 The Angels' Feast 

Thy well-beloved, I came with breathless speed 
And laid them at her feet; me she embraced, 
And "charmed with Jesus' spiritual beauty," 
Chose Him as only object of her love. 
Behold! [Pointing to palms.] these palms of vic- 
tory are hers: 
The Lily yet unstained ; the Straw, still fresh, 
An odor breathes like that of Bethlehem. 
And see! the Shield bears bright insignia 
Of well-fought battles with her three great foes. 

Angel Guardian. [To Soul saved.] O Soul, redeemed 
by Christ's dear Blood, hast thou 
Some trophy of thy ministry on earth 
To her I guard? 

Soul. Nay, blessed Spirit, she 

My gentle teacher was in ways of God : 

And while I studied worldly lore, she taught, 

By word and fair example, that the world 

Is but a vapor touched with rainbow tints ; 

That God is all ; the soul of infinite price. 

She robed me in Truth's vesture; and the light 

Of Faith [Looks at Candle.] placed in my hands: 

thro' life and death 
Her prayers a golden column were on which 
I leaned ; and other souls grown brave thro* her 
Are nobly working out God's will on earth. 
[A bell is heard tolling for prayer.] 

Angel Guardian. 'Tis now the hour my well-beloved 
spends 
In sweet commune with God : but a brief space 



The Angels' Feast 207 

And song and mirth shall crown her Festival, 
Sweet tribute of her loving Sisters. 

[Soft sacred music is heard.] 

Sister Jubilarian, her eyes lowered, steps down from 
her throne and, telling her beads, walks on the 
scene. 

Angel of the Altar. Lo! 

She comes; I go to watch o'er her with thee. 

[Raises censer.] 

Angel Guardian and Angel of the Altar go forward, 
meet Sister, and return one on each side; they 
accompany her to the Prie-Dieu, and take their 
station by her side; she kneels with clasped hands, 
unconscious of her Angel companions. Music 
slowly dies away as she speaks. 

Sister Jubilarian. [Eyes heavenward.] This truly is 
the day the Lord hath made. 
What shall I render to Thee, O my God, 
For all Thy boundless mercies? Seraphs bright, 
O thank Him, for I faint with happiness! 

[Bows her head on her hands.] 

Angel of the Altar. Her cup of joy is too full ; lo! she 
weeps. 

Angel of Tears. [Holding up chalice.] Behold my 
chalice full to overflowing 
With tears of sweet acceptance unto God. 

At this moment a dark form — the evil one — enters Left 
stealthily to tempt her; she feels his presence with- 
out looking, and shudders, raising her eyes to 
Heaven. Upon his appearance a swift tableau of 
Spirits is formed: Angel of Altar, right, holds up 



2o8 The Angels' Feast 

Censer in right hand and extends his left over her; 
Angel of Charity, a little behind her, elevates the 
Heart; Angel Guardian, heft, extends Cross with 
left hand, while his right is around Sister; a little 
in advance and toward the left of him Angel of the 
Vows presents Shield toward the evil spirit. The 
other Angels kneel in graceful attitudes, raising 
their symbols, some stretching a protecting arm 
toward her. The tableau must be formed with 
the swiftness of thought the instant the evil one 
is seen, then promptly the four Angels speak in 
unison. 

Angel Guardian, Angel of Altar, of Charity, and of 
Vows. Back to thy native hell, foul spirit, 
back! 
Thou hast no part in this redeemed soul. 

During the utterance of the words the evil one falls 
back slowly and reluctantly, with threatening look 
and gesture, and finally disappears. A new tableau 
is formed across the stage and all listen with pleas- 
ure to the Angel speakers. 

Angel Guardian [To Angel of Altar.] Bright Spirit of 
the Seven who gird the Throne, 
Touch thou her mortal vision, that she view 
The visitants supernal who surround her ; 
So shalt thou crown this "Golden Jubilee," 
And foretaste give my love of Paradise. 

Angel of the Altar [Touching her with golden arrow.] 
Child of mortality! a moment gaze; 
Joy flood with torrents all thy being. 

An outburst of joyous sacred music, which continues 



The Angels' Feast 209 

during pantomime till curtain. Sister Jubilarian 
gazes around, smiles, and falls back into her Angel 
Guardian s arms unconscious for a few seconds. 
Then, supported by him, she rises and advances 
between him and Angel of Altar toward the front, 
where the latter introduces her to Angel of Char- 
ity on right; then Angel Guardian introduces her 
to Angel of Tears on left; and so on alternately, 
each Angel telling her of his carv and love, and 
showing the trophies she has won. The Soul saved 
approaches last — a mutual joyous recognition and 
embrace follow, after which they all accompany 
her back to the Prie-Dieu* then form a tableau; 
the Angel of the Altar on one side of Sister and 
her Angel Guardian on the other, while the rest 
are gracefully disposed, kneeling or standing, 
forming a semicircle. Sister Jubilarian s head 
rests on the breast of her Angel as if in an ecstasy. 

Curtain. 



THE STAR OF BETHLEHEM 



A Drama in One Act. 

Persons of the Play. 

Gaspar, 

Melchior, 

Balthazar, I Wise Men. 

Amlec, 

Kati, 

Mary, the Mother of Jesus. 

Joseph. 

Angels. 



THE STAR OF BETHLEHEM 

Scene. — A grove; time, twilight. Bal- 
thazar, walking, deep in thought; Kati; 
Amlec, reclining on a mossy bank. 

Amlec. After the tedious hours we've spent o'er signs 
And mystic numbers, doctrines and what not, 
'Tis pleasant to repose beneath the stars. 
Balthazar, brother, [Rising a little.'] why look'st 

thou so grave? 
Has sorrow visited thy heart this eve ? 

Balthazar. How, brother, can our hearts be aught but 
heavy 
Till the unfolding of this mystery — 
Till the Expected One of nations come 
And take the burden of our sin and woe? 

Kati. But surely in our high and mystic lore 

We nigh touch heaven ; what would'st thou more ? 

Balthazar. The prophecies obscure but rack my soul 
With yearnings for that heavenly Sage foretold, 
And all the time points to their near fulfilment. 

[Enter Melchior and GasparJ] 
Let us, my sons, prepare our spirits' soil ; 
Penance by day, watching and prayer by night, 
Shall ope the heavens to drop this gift divine. 

Melchior. O reverend master, how thy words enthrall 
My spirit ! All our grand traditions tell 
The Portent is at hand, and Buddha comes 



214 The Star of Bethlehem 

To live with men. 

Amlec. [Aside.] Wise fools! 

Kati. [Aside.] Deluded dreamers! 

Gaspar. Yea, Melchior, truth shall soon bud forth and 
flower ; 
The great Invisible, whom we cannot name, 
Shall fill the earth with His majestic presence. 

Amlec. [Rising.] Another wild enthusiast! 

Kati. [Sarcastically.] Pray, hear! 

Gaspar. List, brethren, to my vision of the night : 
Within the temple I adored ; the eight 
Prostrations I had made and rose; when sudden 
Beside me stood our ancient prophet Honi, 
Dead years agone ; a halo, soft as moonlight, 
Circled his austere form ; his stately head, 
Venerable with snowy crown and beard, 
Bent, and in triumph tones he spake: "My son, 
Be purified, and know the call divine — 
Watch nightly, and the heavens shall give a sign." 

Amlec. False visionary, hold thy prate and be 

Like other men ; much learning makes thee mad. 

Melchior Nay, Amlec, chide him not. — 'Tis wondrous 
strange, 
But holy apparition hath been mine. — 
By Indus' banks I stood in holy musings ; 
A strip of silver cloud seemed floating down, 
And ever down, till o'er the mossy rock 
Nigh which we pray, it stood ; I marvelled much, 
For unseen choirs o'erflowed the midnight skies 
With melody, as forth revealed, a shape 
Glorious, majestical, cast down on me 



The Star of Bethlehem 215 

A look benignant, flashing luminous beams 
More than the sun at noonday. Then I heard : 
"A star shall rise in Jacob — watch its light, 
And follow thou its wandering to the west." 

Kati. Brethren, ye all have grown insane with folly. 

Amlec. [Sarcastically.] Ye, teachers? Kings of men? 
Philosophers ? 
Yea, Magi that invent old women's tales. 

Balthazar. False tongues of Kati and Amlec, beware! 

[To Melchior and Caspar.] 
Wisdom of heaven hath darkness taught ye both! 
And hearken now to mysteries night revealed 
To your unworthy brother: 'neath the stars, 
Thick sown o'er heaven's azure fields, I sate 
Pondering deep questions of the past and future, 
When a dark shadow drew me in its depths, 
And, fear-oppressed, I fell to the ground as dead. 
A hand soft touched me, and a voice low-tuned : 
' 'Arise, thou man of high desires, arise, 
And gaze upon the vision !" — Tremblingly 
I stood upright; and lo! I seemed to ascend 
Beyond, beyond the clouds and stars, when forth 
From the abysses of eternity — 
O sight unspeakable ! — there seemed to come 
A woman, beautiful beyond conception, 
Clothed with the sun, the moon beneath her feet, 
And in her arms a Babe Divine — a King 
Who held the whole earth in his little palm. 
She smiled celestial, and the Babe gazed down — 
O how the glory of that look to tell ! 
My soul colossal grew — but swift fell back 



216 The Star of Bethlehem 

Into primeval nothingness, all lost. 

And then, as if the starry hosts sang soft, 

Her voice came to mine inward ear: "His Star 

Is in the heavens. Watch — pray — and when thou 

seest 
Its glory, thou shalt hear: 'Venite — Venite/ 

[Chant.] 
Then rise and gird thy loins and speed afar 
Beneath its shining, till o'er Him it rests." 

[Bows his head in rapt silence.] 

Gaspar. [Embracing him.] My father — O my father! 

Melchior [With clasped hands.] Heaven hath spoken. 

Balthazar. And so the vision vanished, and I lay 

In speechless worship till the dawn broke fair, 

And birds sang praise, and zephyrs wooed the tree 

tops, 
And the bright sun gilt leaf and flower and hills. 
Amlec. And thou hast spent the lagging hours apart. 
Kati. Nor one wise counsel have we heard today. 
Balthazar. All day within the summer grot I've hid 
In strong appeal unto the Nameless One, 
That He vouchsafe to send this Royal Babe. 
Gaspar and Melchior. Great Buddha, grant our mas- 
ter's holy prayer! 

[Star appears to right.] 
Balthazar. [Starting forward.] Behold the Star! The 
Star of Heaven's King! 
New-kindled — see! it burneth in the Ram. 
Gaspar. And now it floateth downward, calling us. 
Melchior. It moveth in soft splendor toward the west. 
[Hymn, "Venite Adoremus," sung by angels unseen.] 



The Star of Bethlehem 217 

Balthazar. List, list the heaven-descended music! 

Come! 

O holy Star, we come! Fold us within 

Thy tender light till we adore our King. 

Gas par and Melchior. We come, we come, O holy 

Star! 

[Exit Balthazar to right. 

Amlec. [To Gaspar, holding him.] I say 

Thou'rt wild and brainless, youth ; thou shalt not 

go. 

[Gaspar struggles.] 

Rati. [To Melchior, holding him back.] Be ruled by 

reason. Will ye leave your homes, 

Your families and kingdoms for a dream? 

Melchior. [To Rati and Amlec] But hear ye not the 

music? 

Amlec. [Releasing Gaspar.] Idiot, no! 

Rati. [Releasing Melchior.] Your fancy is diseased — 

these sights and sounds 

Built out of nothing. 

[Amlec and Rati retreat to left.] 

Gaspar. [Standing to right.] Amlec, Kati, heed! 

Nor tread the word supernal in the dust. 

Gaspar and Melchior. We come, we come, O holy 

Star! rr , 

[Exeunt to right. 

Scene II. — The Manger of Bethlehem. 
Star stationary above it. The Virgin Mother 
with the Divine Infant in her arms. Angel 
in background guarding them. St. Joseph 
leads in the Three Rings j each bearing gifts. 



218 The Star of Bethlehem 

Joseph. Behold the Infant Saviour whom you seek 
With Mary Mother, the Elect of God — 
Daughter of David and my Virgin Spouse! 
Melchior. [Looking upon the Angel.] Behold the 
Spirit clad in shining wings 
Who came to me by night ! 
Balthazar. [Startled.] Soul of the world! 

This is the Virgin Mother of my vision. 
Gaspar. Low to the dust in worship bow our heads. 

[They prostrate — rise.] 
Balthazar. [Kneeling offers incense.] O royal Virgin, 
who hath given birth 
To Him, the Great Supreme, who made the 

heavens, 
His Star hath led us to thy presence. Deign 
Our gifts unworthy to accept ; our incense — 
For Him we worship as the God of gods. 
Melchior. [Offering golden vase.] Our gold, for He 

is evermore our King. 
Gaspar. [Offering myrrh.] Our myrrh, for His most 
wondrous condescension 
Hath made Him, like ourselves, a mortal man. 
Mary. Your Saviour thanks you for your regal gifts. 
Balthazar. And now, most pure and beauteous Lady, 
hear 
Our prayer and let us press unworthy lips 
To His most sacred feet. 
Mary. Yea, come; He smiles — 

See! on His faithful ones, and bids them rest 
From their long journey. 
[Soft harp music continued to the end; the Kings kneel 



The Star of Bethlehem 219 

successively and kiss the feet of the Babe; then 
form tableau.] 
Mary. From His new-born Heart, 

noble followers of His call divine, 

1 see showers of celestial graces fall 
Upon your spirits: faith heroic, hope, 

Love, even to martyrdom for His blest Name, 
My Child, my God, my Jesus — ye shall win ; 
And ye shall be of ages yet unborn 
The glory, when triumphant ye shall reign 
In His celestial kingdom evermore. 
[Gloria in Excelsis sung by Angels who appear in the 
background.] 



THE ANGELS' MEETING 
or TERRA MARIAE 



A Brief Allegorical Sketch for Performance on 

MARYLAND DAY, 

March the Twenty-fifth. 

Angels of the Play. 

Angel of Indians. Angel of Church. 

Angel of Maryland. Angel of Jesuits. 

Angel of Ocean. Angel Gabriel. 

Angels are robed in white, with long flowing sleeves, 
skirt and sleeves trimmed with gold ; crowns are also of 
gold. Angel Gabriel's robes and crown are more splen- 
did than those of the others, marking one of greater 
dignity : he is draped richly in gold. Angel of Indians 
is draped in red; Angel of Maryland in yellow or 
orange ; Angel of Ocean in pale blue, and bears a triple 
wand; Angel of Church in white and gold; Angel of 
Jesuits in white, with scroll over breast, on which the 
letters "A. M. D. G." are inscribed in gold. 



THE ANGELS' MEETING or 
TERRA MARIAE 

Scene. — A beautiful forest glade. Enter 
Angel of the Indians; gazes around and ad- 
vances to front. 

Angel of the Indians. How tenderly I love this land of 
beauty ! 
A leafy sanctuary, where the birds 
And zephyrs chant their matins with the streams, 
And mount looks down on violet-bordered vale, 
While meadows teem with orient-tinted blooms 
That Spring's full hand hath scattered fragrant- 
eyed. 
Alas! these heavenly skies and verdant glades 
Tell naught of God to my poor forest children, 
Enter in background Angel of Maryland ; listens with 
interest and slowly advances. 
Wedded to Ignorance — to Vice enslaved. 

[Kneels.] 
Father of light ! hear Thou my prayer and ope 
The flood-gates of Thy grace and truth to them 
For Mary's sake, the Mother of Thy Son ! 

[Boivs dejected.] 
Angel of Maryland. My brother, [Touches gently the 
shoulder of kneeling one.] rise, be comforted ; 
fori 



224 The Angels' Meeting 

Have heard faint echoes from the seraph choir: — 
Ere yet the Moon her bright career hath waned, 
Truth, with calm-planted steps, shall walk our 
land; 

Enter Angel of Ocean; advances slowly toward front. 
Methinks I hear far o'er the ocean wave 
Three hundred voices praising Mary's name; 

[Listening.] 
And now they call to me for prayer and help 
As they had known me long in Paradise! 

[Hands raised.] 
Mary, our silver star of morn and eve, 
Guide them serenely o'er the watery tide; 
Chain thou the winds; and waft them with thy 

breath 
Of sweetness safe unto our sylvan bays. 
Angel of Ocean. [Extending wand.] The billows I 
have touched with this light wand ; 
And now two vessels ride majestical 
Beneath the friendly sun and solemn stars, 
Their white sails bent toward this bower of beauty. 

Enter Angel of Church in background. 
To you [Bows to Angel of Maryland.] they come 

in happy vassalage, 
With all the blessings of that elder land 
That hath forgot them, thrust them from her 
breast. 
Angel of Church. [Stepping to front.] Unknowing 
that she buildeth unto God 
Another empire ; that her winding ways, 



or Terra Mariae 225 

Her fiery tortures, send the upright soul 
With mighty yearnings to my portals vast. 
So came the saintly Calvert to my arms — 
Forsook the splendors, honors of a court, 
Welcomed opprobrium as sweet, for Him 
Whose Cross he longed to carry : to his heart 
Embraced his suffering brethren ; and for them 
Unto this unknown wilderness of beauty 
Drew up a chart of heavenly promise ; yet 
His mission ceased like Moses'; ere the hour 

Enter Angel of Jesuits. 
Of sweet fruition came on earth, his soul 
Was wafted by a train of seraphs hence 
To the bright port of immortality. 
Angel of Ocean. The hero father in the sons fulfills 
His noble promise; yet in youthful bloom, 
Cecilius shrines his fortunes on the tide, 
To storms and restless winds and death's white 

feet, 
Unfearing in his trust and reverence — 
Gold links that bind his heart to Christ and Mary. 
Angel of Jesuits. 'Tis Leonard leads them o'er the 

crystal wave ; 
And here he shall achieve George Calvert's hopes, 
Shall plant [To Angel of Maryland.] the seed of 

a great Tree of State, 
Whose fruitage shall be borne from coast to coast. 
Undying loyalty [To Angel of Church.] to thee 

he shall bequeathe 
Through that great Company whom I protect, 
Whose "Ad Majorem Dei Gloriam" 



226 The Angels' Meeting 

I wear, the motto, as ye know, of Heaven. 
There is [To Angel of Maryland.] a green isle 

near your Chesapeake, 
Where bush and blossom lifting their sweet heads, 
An Eden do create of loveliness 
For Him who cometh, near the equinox, 
To bless from His white altar throne your soil 
And root thy Cross [Bows to Angel of Church.] 

within that sylvan shrine. 

Enter Angel Gabriel in background. 
Angel of Maryland. Lo — Gabriel cometh! [All bow 

profoundly.] Herald of our Queen! 
Angel of Church. Good tidings of great joy he ever 

beareth 
From Mary, Queen of angels and of men. 
Angel of Indians. Know'st thou, O Gabriel, no more 

shall languish 
My dusky children in their ignorance? 
That messengers on dovelike wing haste hither 
To take the tomahawk from out their hands, 
And bring them peaceful arts and faith divine? 
Angel Gabriel. Yea, Angel Brothers! seraphs, thrones, 

and saints 
Are watching their frail vessels, Ark and Dove ; 
For many a spirit dark hath hovered nigh, 
To shatter them or sink them to the deeps. 
But Ave, Maris Stella! she shall guide 
Them safe unto this earthly paradise. 
And, peopled wide, this ocean-girded land 
In far-off times shall hail from shore to shore, 
Mary Immaculate, her Patron Queen. 



or Terra Mariae 227 

Angel of Maryland. And in my favored region they 
shall bide, 
These meek-eyed princes of a suffering race ; 
Their virtue, like sweet roses, hath been crushed, 
And sweeter fragrance shall exhale to Heaven. 
Their rule shall be of love, and teach the world 
The liberty of God's beloved children. 

Angel Gabriel. [To Angel of Maryland.] Thou favor- 
ite of Mary, Queen of Heaven, 
It is decreed thy land her name shall bear ; 
Terra Mariae it shall be, and she 
Will guard it as the apple of her eye. 
Upon her great Day, when the Eternal Word 
Took flesh of her, in glory will descend 
Our Queen with all her shining retinue 
And take possession of this fair domain. 
And rolling years her name shall glorify 
When cities shall arise and call her blessed — 
Their shining spires up-pointing to the skies, 
Their altars gleaming with unnumbered lights ; 
And dedicate to God in cloisters fair 
Virgins shall tread in her white steps, and chant 
Daily with us her sweet Magnificat. 

Angel Gabriel. [Sings.] 

Terra Mariae. 

Terra Mariae, O blessed land ! 

Favored of Heaven art thou; 
Sunshine and dews enrich thy strand 

From shore unto mountain's brow. 



228 The Angels' Meeting 

Harvest and orchard shall teem with gold ; 

For over thy waters blue 
Cometh a race from a world grown old, 

Freedom to plant in the new. 
Terra Mariae, O sing her praise! 
Mother and Son shall guard thy ways : 

Christ shall reign o'er thy people's heart ; 

O Terra Mariae, His love thou art ! 

While Gabriel sings "Terra Mariae" the Angels are 
grouped with a graceful variety; their eyes are 
raised, upon their faces is a rapt expression, and 
their hands — at choice — are joined or crossed on 
the breast, or raised in supplication. The last four 
lines might be sung in chorus. 

Curtain. 



A GEORGETOWN REUNION AND 
WHAT CAME OF IT 



A DRAMA IN TWO ACTS. 
Performed in honor of His Excellency 
The Most Reverend John Bonzano, D.D. 
Apostolic Delegate 

October 17, 1913 
Persons of the Play. 

Angela Bressani, the hostess. 
Gwendolyn Thompson. 
Eleanor Newman. 
Emily Calderon. 
Stephanie le Brun. 
Marie Wilton. 
Alice Carroll. 
Lily Hawthorne. 
Ellen, a maid. 



A GEORGETOWN REUNION 
AND WHAT CAME OF IT 

Act I. The Reunion. 

Scene. — A conservatory in the Bressani 
Home. Enter Angela Bressani, the hostess; 
she looks around with complacency, and be- 
gins to sing an Italian air; she touches a plant 
here and there. Enter maid, with bright-col- 
ored pillows, which she arranges on the wicker 
chairs, assisted by Angela. Exit maid. 

Angela. What a glorious day for our reunion! It 
is years since we all met together. That was in 
the dear Convent, so full of precious memories. 
[Sings. Starts and listens. Two faces appear 
smiling at the right door, then one at the left; 
enter R. Stephanie and Marie; the latter puts her 
hands over Angela's eyes; Alice follows laughing .] 

Angela. Welcome, welcome, dear Marie, from far 
Saint Louis. And this funny old Detroiter, Ste- 
phanie le Brun. [Patting her hand.] And you, 
too, little Alice, whom I see every morning at 
Mass. 

Stephanie. I am so glad to be back with you all. It is 
perfectly delightful here, Angela; I don't believe 
I care a pin about motoring into the country; I 



232 A Georgetown Reunion 

just want to stay here. You haven't changed a 
bit, Angela; you are sweeter than ever. 

Marie. You have been writing about the cares of a 
household and all that; but it hasn't taken the 
bloom off your cheeks. 

Alice. O that's not all ; she is a schoolmistress in addi- 
tion, and winning local fame by her classical teach- 
ing of two dear little imps of mischief, her broth- 
ers, and by her exquisite training of her dainty 
little princess of a sister. 

Angela. O Alice, Alice, where did you learn such 
wicked flattery ? But now, girls, the all-important 
Constellation of the Pisces will soon appear, our 
Fishes, for we must draw them into the net of 
Peter before they leave the National Capital. 

Alice. [Clapping her hands.] Eleanor and Gwendo- 
lyn! 

Stephanie. Pray, Angela, how long since you turned 
missionary ? 

Angela. Never mind, Stephanie; you know you al- 
ways were an interrogation point. We must lay 
our plans and get our bait ready. 

Marie. Angela Bressani, you don't know what you're 
doing. Gwendolyn is a confirmed unbeliever; she 
openly professes it, a friend of mine told me, and 
she sneers at religion in general. 

Alice. But think of all the prayers the Sisters have 
offered for her! Do you dream they are going to 
be lost, or that the Sacred Heart will not come to 
our aid if we make valiant efforts? I promised 
Sr. Louise Peronne — that I — 



and What Came of It 233 

Stephanie. [Laughing.] O we all know the rest — that 
you would conquer Eleanor Newman, and bring 
her back, coute que coute. You'll find her a hard 
nut to crack, though. 

Marie. As for Gwendolyn, I advise you not to touch 
on religion while she is here — not one of you ; take 
my word for it she'll shock us all with her utter- 
ances. 

Angela. [Thoughtfully.] No, we need not take the 
initiative; but if Gwendolyn opens fire, let us all 
be on our mettle and show her that we can defend 
the faith of our Baptism. 

Stephanie. Right. Let us show her how flimsy her pre- 
tense to unbelief is and tear it to pieces. 

Alice. Bravo, Stephanie! Let us smother her in the 
Gold and White of our Convent ideals. [Waving 
a Convent flag.] 

Voices are heard outside. "O dont announce us!" 
"No, we'll run right in without ceremony." Maid 
goes to one side. Enter Gwendolyn Thompson and 
Eleanor Newman. Alice runs to embrace Eleanor. 
Girls crowd around them with words of welcome 
and lead them to seats. 

Eleanor. Well, here we are back in dear old Washing- 
ton again ! 

Gwendolyn. Still alive and wearing the names of our 
promising girlhood — not even an engagement 
ring. [Holding up her hand.] 

Angela. What a delight to see you again, you dear old 
Vassar girl! You and Eleanor both cheated us 



234 A Georgetown Reunion 

and the Convent of our rights, for you should 
have been graduated with us at Georgetown. 

Gwendolyn. Vassar forever! It was certainly a great 
good fortune for me that father and mother dif- 
fered on educational principles. [Fanning herself 
daintily.] You see, mother had a great affection 
for the Sisters of the Assumption, who had trained 
her for years, though, through it all, she stoutly 
maintained her Scotch admiration for John Knox 
and his Presbyterian teachings. But you all know 
that on my sixteenth birthday father recalled me 
from the Convent, and stood firm as a rock that I 
should have a purely secular education and choose 
my own religion. 

Marie. [Raising her eyes and hands.] O Lord, deliver 
me from a choice among the thousand and one 
sects that have pitched their tents in our most hos- 
pitable country! 

Stephanie. [Hastily, with an anxious look at Marie.] 
There were many sad hearts, dear Gwendolyn, 
when Dr. Thompson sent forth that inexorable 
edict to disturb the peace and break the unity of 
our dear old Third Senior Class. You didn't like 
to go, either, confess it. 

Gwendolyn. No, indeed ; I disgraced myself, went into 
hysterics several times, and kept father angry and 
writing prescriptions for me a month or two. But 
[Laughing.] I got over it. My viewpoint is differ- 
ent now, and I say with all my heart, Hail, Vas- 
sar! 

Alice. [In an aggrieved tone.] I don't believe you say 



and What Came of It 235 

it with all your heart, Gwendolyn Thompson. A 
dangerous illness would be a good test for your 
heart on that point. 

Stephanie. [Playfully.'] O Alice, I didn't think you 
could be so cruel! 

Marie. But Wellesley came down on us with another 
blow like a sledgehammer, Eleanor, when your 
aunt came over from Paris. Who can forget that 
cold December morning when she took you out of 
the infirmary, and without waiting for your trunk 
to be packed, hurried you off to Newport with her ? 

Eleanor. [Laughing.] O Auntie is a Christian Scien- 
tist, and mother told her I sang in the High Mass 
at the Convent, and said the Rosary, and — -wanted 
to be a Catholic; so in a blaze of excitement she 
flew across the ocean in the first steamer, and with 
her stormy eloquence overpowered mother and 
had her way with me ; so off I was trotted to Wel- 
lesley for four years. 

Angela. Little Alice here was absolutely inconsolable 
over your departure. She did not eat or sleep for 
three days. She would go into the Chapel and 
kneel there and sob out loud, to our great discom- 
fort, for we had hearts, too ; and as for the dormi- 
tory, everyone wanted to go to her alcove to help 
wipe away her tears, poor little dear ! 

Stephanie. O, indeed ! Sr. Louise Peronne wanted the 
office of consoler all to herself, and [Smiling.] 
Alice was not averse to it. 

Alice. Well, Eleanor knows [Caressing her hand.] that 
my love has followed her, and my prayers, too, 



236 A Georgetown Reunion 

though she has seldom reminded me of her exist- 
ence. I offer the Holy Communion every Sunday 
and Thursday for her return to her old love and 
her Convent sentiments. There now! 

Eleanor. What a dear child you are! [Caresses her; 
Gwendolyn shrugs her shoulders and looks around 
superciliously.] I shouldn't wonder if you sent the 
angels to protect us in the violent storm last May 
when we were all saved so miraculously in that 
fearful wreck. 

Marie. [Starting up.] O Eleanor dear, were you on 
the Imperial when she struck the iceberg and went 
down? 

Eleanor. I certainly was; an awful experience never to 
be forgotten. I prayed then as never before in my 
short life even in the Georgetown Chapel. And 
dear little Alice was guarding me, too, in those 
terrible moments. [Alice lays her head on 
Eleanor Y shoulder in silent emotion.] 

Voices outside. "Better late than never." Enter 
Emily Calderon and Lily Hawthorne. The girls 
surround them and welcome them cordially; mur- 
murs of delight are mingled with happy laughter. 

Emily. [Throwing herself on a bench.] Dear girls, get 
me some smelling salts and iced lemonade this 
minute. I shall certainly faint with joy at the 
sight of you all together again. 

Ellen, the maid, peeps in and hastens with bottle and 
tumbler of lemonade. All laugh, and Angela fans 
Emily. 

Lily. [Playfully.] Really, girls, I was ashamed of 



and What Came of It 237 

Emily Calderon's conduct at her cousin's wedding 
this morning. She pulled out that pearl watch of 
hers at least six times during the function ; and she 
wouldn't even wait for the ceremony of the rice- 
throwing, much less of the ancient footwear after 
the carriage ; but kissed the bride good-by and then 
pulled me out of the back entrance; so here we 
are! 

Emily. We reversed the old song and made it, "Come 
haste from the wedding!" But how glad I am to 
see every one of you ! Time seems to have set back 
the clock to the very day we parted, for you haven't 
grown a minute older, one of you. 

Stephanie. \_Making a profound courtesy.] We owe 
you a grand salam for such a universal compli- 
ment, which allow me to return to yourselves with 
compound interest. 

Lily. [To Gwendolyn.] You have grown positively 
fascinating, Gwendolyn; I should hardly have 
recognized you. An acquaintance of ours, Lawyer 
Stone, thought you were stunning — that's his ex- 
pression, not mine — the night you were at Profes- 
sor Warpsoul's lecture on "Religion, a Myth." 

Marie. O Gwendolyn, you didn't go to hear that noto- 
rious infidel ! What a peril for your soul ! 

Gwendolyn. Why, he's a marvel of eloquence! I 
never saw anyone so upright and earnest. He 
opens your eyes, I tell you, to the superstitions of 
the race. 

Eleanor. [Jumping up in indignation.] Gwendolyn 
Thompson, I am ashamed of you. 



238 A Georgetown Reunion 

Gwendolyn. [Defiantly.] You needn't be. Theism is 
quite enough for me, [All look shocked.] or the 
Unknowable, [Loftily.] as a very learned professor, 
my friend, puts it. He simply discards the philos- 
ophy, the dogma, of the Roman Church, which he 
calls sophistry. 

Angela. [Laughing.] Poor man! That's Professor 
Greenbottle, isn't it? I've heard about him. I 
guess he never studied Aristotle or Plato, much 
less St. Thomas Aquinas, the Angelic Doctor, or 
any other of the catalogue of our great Doctors and 
saints. Hence he must be [Sarcastically.] a most 
reliable authority on philosophy and dogma. 

Lily. Professor Greenbottle a philosopher? He's a 
dolt. He never was trained in logic. Look at the 
superb training and equipment of a Jesuit in 
philosophy. Greenbottle reminds me of Hamlet's 
estimate of that old Italian they raised a statue to 
not long ago: "Words, words, words!" He puts 
together a lot of high-sounding words and then 
thinks himself competent to sneer at Christianity. 
He tries his best, and your lady-professors, too, 
Gwendolyn — shame on them! to pluck the blessed 
message of Christ out of the hearts of their inno- 
cent and trusting pupils. 

Emily. [With a drawl] They'll all be April-fooled 
some day. [Sips lemonade.] 

Alice. They mock at the Church and criticise her be- 
cause they don't know her ; they know nothing of 
the beautiful mysteries of our faith. 



and What Came of It 239 

Gwendolyn. [Triumphantly.] That's just it ; we don't 
want mysteries. 

Emily. [Impetuously.] Then you don't want God at 
all, Gwendolyn; where 's your logic? If you had 
lived in the era of the French Revolution, you 
would have worshipped the goddess of Reason. 

Gwendolyn. You talk nonsense, Emily. Why, the 
Bible itself is — 

Eleanor. [Interrupting sternly.] Gwendolyn, this is 
no conversation for Alice to listen to. It is so long 
since she and I exchanged confidences that I think 
[Rising.] we will walk down by the magnolias; I 
see the fountain sparkling in the sunshine. Come, 
Alice. 

Alice. [Aside.] Eleanor, Gwendolyn can't hurt me 
with her little pea-shooter. [Aloud.] Don't let 
us go yet, please. 

Marie. No, wait for the fall of the curtain on this little 
drama. 

Angela. You might be needed as a court of appeal. 

Alice. That's very true, Angela. [Laughing and draw- 
ing Eleanor to seat.] 

Emily. Not a bit of it; Alice just wants to see the bub- 
ble burst. 

Gwendolyn. [Loftily.] Yours is the logic of sarcasm, 
Emily; it doesn't frighten me. You know Chris- 
tianity is open to criticism. 

Alice. [Earnestly.] Turn the searchlight of your crit- 
icism upon the sects that sprang up like mushrooms 
after Luther and Calvin and Henry VIII had 



240 A Georgetown Reunion 

tried to tear asunder the fair and hallowed — and 
true Church of Christ. 

Gwendolyn. [Triumphantly.] That's just what I 
have done. I've weighed them in the balance and 
found them wanting, just as our professors at dear 
old Vassar told us : and I only want to live a good 
life, and radiate sweetness and light around me. 
[Fans herself complacently.] 

Emily. [With playful scorn.] Radiate powder and per- 
fume! [Applies her smelling-salts vigorously.] 

Lily. The Catholic Church is the infallible teacher, 
Gwen. She forbids her children to look for truth 
in a broken mirror. 

Stephanie. Your worshippers of altruism, of sweetness 
and light, are altogether behind the times. The 
Church has been a ministering angel to all the 
wants and sorrows of the race ever since Christ 
gave her to us on Calvary. 

Angela. Yes, St. Augustine tells us that the Church 
came forth from the opening of His Sacred Heart. 
And she is still living, and as young and strong 
and beautiful as ever, Gwendolyn. 

Gwendolyn. [Weakly.] That's all very pretty poetry; 
but if you knew the terrible history of your Church, 
pardon me if I grieve you, as our eminent profes- 
sor and writer of history taught it to us at Vassar, 
you would — 

Eleanor. [Interrupting impatiently.] O Gwen, we 
heard the same stories at Wellesley, and the same 
lectures on sweetness and light, without a word of 
the supernatural, making little goddesses of us all ; 



and What Came of It 241 

but I used to go into Boston and hunt up the 
Catholic side in the Public Library. 

Alice. [Pressing her hand.] You're a darling, Eleanor ; 
you always were sincere. And, Gwendolyn, who 
radiates sweetness and light if not Christ, who 
said, "I am the Light of the world" ? 

Eleanor. [Earnestly.] That is a true and beautiful 
thought, Alice. 

Gwendolyn. Eleanor dear, what's coming over the 
spirit of your dream? 

Eleanor. [With grave emphasis.] Well, girls, to tell 
the truth, when I see crowds of beautiful, cultured 
young girls all around me — and it is the same with 
the boys — drinking in unbelief day after day just 
as they would a glass of champagne, my heart 
grows sick, and I know, I know I must have a 
religion, and the true one founded on a Rock, 
founded on Christ. 

Gwendolyn. [Excitedly.] But, Eleanor, remember the 
Popes and Galileo and the Inquisition. Why, the 
Roman Church and the Popes have always sup- 
pressed learning and science. 

Eleanor. That isn't true, Gwendolyn ; she was edu- 
cating her people and influencing and teaching 
great nations hundreds of years before the Refor- 
mation. 

Stephanie. Look at the great universities she initiated 
and endowed — temples of science and all the learn- 
ing of the day. 

Emily. [Drawling.] Never can forget the Trivium 
and Quadrivium of Dante! 



242 A Georgetown Reunion 

Marie. All the Popes were munificent in the cause of 
education. Centuries before Luther revolted in 
1517, the universities of Paris, Padua and more 
than a score of others were flourishing; that of 
Pisa has been called the cradle of modern science. 

Angela. Think of the Renaissance! That great move- 
ment to restore classical learning ought to interest 
you, Latin and Greek scholars. It rose in Italy 
under the aegis of Popes eminent for learning. 
Nicholas V was a prodigy of culture, and so was 
Aeneas Sylvius, afterwards Pius II. 

Emily. And you surely know what the Medici family 
did! 

Lily. There never was a more splendid patron of artists 
and scholars than Lorenzo de Medici. And Pope 
Leo X, his son, was so illustrious a patron of art 
and letters that posterity has honored him by giv- 
ing his name to an age — the Age of Leo X. 

Gwendolyn. Yes, that was the age of Raphael and 
Michael Angelo. But O the Sistine Madonna! 
It is the event of my life to have seen it. In that 
moment I thought it was no wonder Catholics 
prayed to the Virgin. 

Marie. We all know that when genius enters with rev- 
erence into the supernatural, art becomes supreme. 

Angela. The Church recovered the lost art of the 
Greeks and pressed it into her own service. Just 
run down the names of those two hundred and 
sixty-four Popes that have reigned in unbroken 
succession since the days of Peter, the days of 
Christ, and see what torches of enlightenment they 



and What Came of It 243 

have been through all the centuries. And some 
names shine out like suns. 

Alice. Their palace, the Vatican, is the magnet of the 
world. Every Pope has added to its treasures of 
art and belles-lettres: the great and glorious past 
of the world's genius lives and revels there. 

Eleanor. I remember hearing papa tell how the whole 
learned world was stirred when the great Leo 
XIII opened all the Vatican archives to historical 
writers and scholars, who went flocking there from 
all nations to make researches, unearthing manu- 
scripts hundreds of years old. 

Emily. And our saintly Pius X is pursuing the same 
luminous course as his predecessors, stimulating 
the hierarchy and the religious orders to still 
greater zeal in the cause of education — and don't 
let us forget the Jesuits and the Visitation — -while 
his great mind is carrying on stupendous projects 
for the welfare of the Church everywhere. 

Stephanie. In all ages Rome, the Pontifical Palace, has 
been the favored resort of the scholarship of the 
world. 

Eleanor. Rome is truly the city of the soul — the soul 
of the Church. "Two thousand years — " 

Gwendolyn. [Rising and interrupting.'] "Of triumph 
and of tears!" O how well I remember the Com- 
mencement day that Marguerite recited it! How 
happy and light-hearted I was! — I — was! [Pauses 
sadly. .] 

Angela. [Standing, begins to recite.] 
"Two thousand years! 



244 A Georgetown Reunion 

A wondrous history of hopes and fears!" [Stops.] 
The girls exclaim, "O go on, Angela!" — "Recite more 

of it!" Angela continues the poem. Gwendolyn 

listens pleased, but becomes more and more moved 

as the lines proceed. Toward the close, in deep 

agitation, she goes slowly toward the left, then 

pauses and looks upon the speaker, her countenance 

full of emotion. 
Angela. "Two thousand years 

Of triumph and of tears! 
A glorious epic of creative hand, 
Its scenes, its actors are in every land ; 

Apostles, martyrs, crimsoned o'er, 

And emperors impassioned bore 
Her sign and conquered; and the nations proud, 
Mighty in arms and art and genius bowed 
Beneath her ruby sceptre, wrought of love. 

Tho' kingly robbers tear her rights away 
Serene in majesty she waits her day: 

She weeps, as zephyrs bear her children's moans, 
When lo ! her foot is on the conqueror's bones. 

Leo, discrowned, a prisoner dies, 
While tears are falling from unnumbered eyes, 

Till o'er the jubilant wires is flashed again 
A name that doth the world's allegiance hold, 
Pius, the tenth of all the stately line 
That strong defenders, saints and martyrs shine! 
States fall — arts fade — the Church grows never old. 
Her temporal power broken — her array 

Of monarch Popes a pageant of the past, 
Yet sigh not for her vanished sway, 



and What Came of It 245 

Her glories shall forever last. 
Can man her proud historic deeds forget? 
The bards that grew beneath her wing 
That shall adown the ages fling 
Their wondrous music? And while eyes shall yet 
Love beauty, shall the heavenly canvas speak 
Her pure ideals unto hearts that seek. 
Fair spires shall point on high 
From shrines of wonder planned above the sky 
By angels linked with heavenly men. 
"But O her spiritual world unseen — 
Kingdom of souls, that stretches far 
Beyond the farthest, unknown star 
Its treble vassalage — that hath a spell 
Resistless 'gainst the fallen hosts of hell — 
When earth shall crumble and the stars shall fall, 

When Nature to her heart is riven — 
This shall abide, she still be Queen o'er all : 
Her true name, Church Triumphant, lives in 
Heaven!" 
The girls applaud. Gwendolyn goes toward the front. 
Gwendolyn. O girls, what memories are stirred! It 
seems as if I had run right up against a stone wall. 
Emily. Just what you have done, Gwen ; so turn about 
and take the homeward path ; and step into it right 
away. 
Gwendolyn. [Sadly.] You think your minds have all 
expanded and blossomed and mine has been 
blighted. Well, so be it ; I didn't put myself into 
the atmosphere, intellectual and moral, that has 
caused it. I don't go to church any more [Half 



246 A Georgetown Reunion 

sobbing. ,] even on Sundays. [Seats herself. Girls 
look at each other in surprise.] 

Emily. Ahem ! that's rather a paganish state of affairs, 
isn't it, Gwen? — a free and easy way of giving 
over your immortal soul to the " Gentleman in 
Black"? [Applies smelling salts.] 

Gwendolyn. It hasn't been so free and easy. Con- 
science is a cruel mistress, and I have tried to 
silence her — see how frank I am! But now a 
whole flood of memories comes back — music, mel- 
odies of the past are ringing through my soul, and 
[Distressed.] what does it all mean? 

Angela. [Caressing her.] It means, dearest Gwendo- 
lyn, that your heart is the same old heart that it 
was in Georgetown, and that you cannot put 
Christ, our Blessed Saviour, out of your life; if 
you do, all the beauty, all the meaning of life, is 
gone, and with it hope and happiness, leaving you 
only the dregs of misery. 

Eleanor. [Approaching her and kneeling by her side.] 
Gwendolyn, dear, I feel for you. I know what 
you are suffering; believe me, it's Catholicity or 
nothing, for both you and me. 

Gwendolyn. I don't believe I ever shall be happy again ; 
I feel the darkness of my soul and am perfectly 
miserable. I shall never be at peace. 

Emily. O yes, you will, Gwen; obey my prescription; 
[Smelling salts.] take time by the forelock; cross 
the Rubicon. 

Gwendolyn covers her face with her hands, struggling 



and What Came of It 247 

with emotion; a solemn pause, while all look 
anxious and Alice fingers her Rosary. 

Gwendolyn. [Rising and coming forward.] Girls, 
[Voice firm and decided.] it's all over with me; I 
say with Eleanor, it's Catholicity or nothing. 
[Smothered expressions of joy are heard. "O 
Gwendolyn!" — "You dear brave girl I"] I'll take 
the step, and soon, with God's help! But what 
shall I do, Angela? 

Lily. Gwendolyn, give up your trip to Florida for the 
present, and stay with me for a month and be in- 
structed. 

Angela. Lily dear, don't aspire to be sole proprietor 
of "Our Mutual Friend." I speak for a fortnight 
at least. And, Gwendolyn, you shall come to 
Catechism with my small class of three, and be a 
child again. 

Eleanor. Don't think you're going to leave me out in 
the cold, Angela; I'll take a back seat in your 
primer class, too; and Gwen and I will enter the 
True Fold together. 

Alice. But you are to be my guest, Eleanor, as long as 
you stay in Washington. You may have an hour 
a day off with Angela, but I'll be there. 

Eleanor. [Taking both of Alice's hands in her own.] 
It will be a greater happiness than I can express 
to be with you, dear, and to be your docile pupil 
in the new and beautiful path that God has opened 
for me to His Holy Church. 

Gwendolyn. [Tremblingly.] But O how awful to 
have to go to confession ! 



248 A Georgetown Reunion 

Emily. [Laughing.] Yes, after your heathenish life! 

Lily. Don't fret about that, Gwen ; you know we live 
very near His Excellency, the Apostolic Delegate, 
and sometimes go to Mass in his private chapel ; 
so I am going to introduce you to him as a soul 
snatched from the burning, and Eleanor shall 
come, too. He is charming and gentle, just like 
St. Francis de Sales, our Saint of Georgetown, in 
spite of the great sceptre of authority our sainted 
Pope Pius X has placed in his hand. 

Alice. O to hear him say Mass always gives me spirit- 
ual consolation! I have met him twice, and I 
prophesy that he will be the most beloved and the 
most popular of our nuncios. 

Gwendolyn. Who is the Apostolic Delegate? What 
office does he hold ? 

Stephanie. He is a very eminent Archbishop, the Dele- 
gate of Pope Pius X from Rome to our United 
States. His mission places him above all the 
hierarchy. 

Marie. That is, above all the priests, religious, bishops 
and archbishops — above all as a court of appeal. 
Gwendolyn. What a graceful order of authority 
there is in your Church! It fascinated me in 
Rome, where I attended several ecclesiastical func- 
tions — one in Saint Peter's — with a Catholic 
friend. I do not feel ashamed now to confess to 
you that when I saw your Pope — 

Emily. Ah, Gwen, you looked upon a saint. How I 
envy you! 



and What Came of It 249 

Gwendolyn. Yes, Emily, in that moment something 

divine came over my soul. 
Angela. And now it is bearing fruit, Gwendolyn. You 

will have all the more reverence for his Delegate. 

When you know him you will feel his personal 

magnetism as well as the rest of us. 
Eleanor. I don't see how he ever could have left his 

beautiful, enchanting Italy to come to our cold 

country. 
Lily. Ah, but he will find warm and generous hearts 

here, overflowing with love and loyalty. 
Emily. [Holding up Lily's hand.] Behold — a dis- 
covery ! 
Stephanie. An engagement ring, I declare ! 
Alice. What a perfect beauty — six diamonds and a 

pearl ! 
Eleanor. And you've done this all unknown to us ! O 

what a treachery to your best friends to keep so 

delightful a secret from them ! 
Lily. [Laughing.] It is a secret yet. [All laugh.] 

Now mind ! 
Gwendolyn. A secret known to seven females! Why, 

it will be sent abroad by the International Press 

Association before night. 
Stephanie. I see, Gwendolyn, your tongue is still armed 

with its arrows of fun. 
Angela. Dare to make such another accusation against 

your sex, Gwen, and we'll have you imprisoned. 
Gwendolyn. Where? [Laughing.] In all your arms! 
Marie. You know you're guilty, Gwen, for one; you 

never could keep a secret. 



250 A Georgetown Reunion 

Lily. Now for another secret — two of them. 

Several voices. "O hush — hush! Listen." 
Lily. The engagement is going to be announced on 

Monday evening, and I want every one of you to 

be present. 

Emily. Glorious tidings! 

Angela. We shall be there! 

Stephanie. An hour before the time ! 

Lily. And then [Hesitating and looking down.] we are 

to be married six weeks from today in St. Aloysius' 

Church with a lovely Nuptial Mass. 

Gwendolyn. [Shrugging her shoulders.] Before day- 
break ! What nonsense to spoil that most romantic 
ceremony of life with so much religion ! 

Eleanor. So I say — though, perhaps, I am wrong. 

Stephanie. "A double blessing is a double grace," says 
Hamlet. But that wonderful nuptial benediction 
is a hundred heavenly blessings in one. I wouldn't 
miss it for all the world. Pd rather go and be a 
nun. [Laughter.] 

Alice. [Earnestly.] Just think of it! Kneeling in the 
sanctuary, with the priest above you in the holy 
vestments, his hands outstretched and pronouncing 
over you one of the most inspired prayers in the 
Missal! I hope every one of us will be married 
that way — that is, if — 

Marie. I think it would be a great deal nicer to have a 
Bishop. 

Emily. Or — an Archbishop. 



and What Came of It 251 

Lily. Well — now you're vowed to secrecy, mind! 
Here's the third. We are to be honored by more 
than a Bishop or an Archbishop. His Excellency, 
the Apostolic Delegate, is going to tie the knot 
for us. 

All. [Clapping.] Splendid! glorious! 

Stephanie. O how I envy you, Lily! 

Angela. I wish you all joy! 

Enter Ellen, the maid. 

Ellen. The motor is at the door, Miss Angela. 

Angela. [Rising.] See that all the wraps are in place, 
Ellen, and tell James to stow away the luncheon. 
Au revoir, ladies. 

Alice. [In center, clasping Eleanor s hand in Gwendo- 
lyn s.] Who would have dreamed that this beauti- 
ful day would open with such happiness ! 

Gwendolyn. Ah, girls, but a month from today! 

Eleanor. We shall then be not only your friends, but 
your sisters in the one true faith of Christ. 
Tableau (or Exeunt Omnes). 

Act II. What Came of It. 

Scene. — The Same. 

Enter Angela, Stephanie and Marie. 

Angela. The Feast of our Lady of the Rosary and of 

the Guardian Angels: what a day for the grand 

ceremony ! 
Stephanie. And in the dear old Convent Chapel of the 

Sacred Heart, with all the Sisters praying for 

them! How auspicious! 



252 A Georgetown Reunion 

Marie. This month has been a month of wonders. 

Such a change has come over Gwendolyn — it's 

almost incredible. To see her happy, peaceful face 

this morning almost made me weep. 
Angela. It is the change of the right hand of the Most 

High, and in Eleanor, too. Let us learn a lesson 

never to despair, and never to be cowards when we 

see souls so beautiful going into wrong paths. 
Enter Lily and Emily, Gwendolyn between them, 

gowned in white, veiled, and wearing crown of 

lilies of the valley. 
Lily. Here we have brought you the sweet neophyte, 

all dressed for the sacrifice ! 
Emily. The lion turned into the lamb. 
Stephanie. You have our warmest congratulations, 

Gwendolyn. 
Marie. And our fervent prayers. 

Angela. O Gwendolyn, what a crown of love and sac- 
rifice you offer our Lady of the Rosary, the 
Mother of beautiful love ! O happy day for you ! 

Gwendolyn. Yes, it is the happiest day of my life. 
What a debt I owe to you and the good Sisters, 
who have strengthened and encouraged me by their 
prayers as well as their holy instructions ! 

Enter Alice, with Eleanor in white, veiled and crowned. 

Alice. [With dramatic gesture.'] Behold the dear child 
of Mary ! She will soon say to you, Eleanor, and 
to Gwendolyn, too, Thou art all fair and there is 
not a spot in thee. 



and What Came of It 253 

Marie. [Taking Eleanors hand.] See, Eleanor, we 
can hardly speak for emotion, for overwhelming 
joy. 

Emily. And pride, too, in our new champions. Two 
valiant women to add to the long and illustrious 
line [Bowing and touching her breast.] — including 
ourselves — of Catholic womanhood. 

Stephanie. What a harvest of graces you will reap to- 
day ! 

Eleanor. And to think that God made you the instru- 
ments of this great work in our souls ! This month 
has flown on wings of joy, has it not, Gwendolyn? 

Gwendolyn. It has, indeed; and every day has opened 
up new truths and beauties in the faith. I can't 
help saying with St. Augustine : "Too late have I 
known thee, too late have I loved thee, O Church 
ancient and ever new!" 

Angela. And, girls, just consider their splendid gener- 
osity and courage. Neither of them has ever been 
baptized, yet they insisted on making a general 
confession of their whole lives to His Excellency, 
the Apostolic Delegate. 

Eleanor. He has set my heart right forevermore. His 
heavenly counsel has sent a flood of sunlight down 
my whole future path in life. 

Gwendolyn. But I needed a Father more than you ; one 
as kind and tender and great-hearted as the father 
of the Prodigal Son, and I found one in him. And 
is it not glorious that today, just fresh from Bap- 
tism, we shall receive our First Communion ? 



254 A Georgetown Reunion 

Alice. [With enthusiasm.] Under the mantle of Mary, 
and all the angels soaring about you and casting 
down graces like roses into your souls ! 

Eleanor. It makes me feel so near to the sainted Pius, 
who works so many miracles, that the holy hand 
of his Delegate is to pour upon us the sacred waters 
of Baptism, and then to feed us for the first time 
with the Body and Blood of our God and Saviour. 

Gwendolyn. And he has told us how to preserve our 
new baptismal innocence and carry it unstained 
before the throne of God; — and we are going to 
obey him, Eleanor, [Taking her hand.] are we 
not? 

Eleanor. Yes, by receiving Jesus Christ, the Living 
Bread of Heaven, in the Holy Eucharist every day 
of our lives. 

Angela. [Looking off.] Ah, see! here comes His Ex- 
cellency.* He recognizes us and smiles. Now we 
must conduct you to him to obtain his paternal 
blessing. [They go off stage, Angela leading 
Gwendolyn, and Alice, Eleanor, to the Delegate's 
throne, the others following.] Behold, Your Ex- 
cellency, our latest neophytes, who seek your bene- 
diction. [All courtesy profoundly and then kneel 
for the blessing.] 



1w Pax super Israel/' Page 20. 

The honored Founder of the First American Convent 
of the Visitation, in Georgetown, D. G, was the Right Rev. 
Leonard Neale (1746-1817), who, in 1799, the year of foun- 
dation, was Bishop Coadjutor of Archbishop Carroll of 
Baltimore. When a missionary in Demerara, British 
Guiana, in 1782, he had beheld in vision a long procession of 
virgins, clad in religious garb and led by a lady of peculiar 
dignity. Standing near him, in pontifical robes, was St. 
Francis de Sales, who, pointing to them, said : "Thou shalt 
build a House of this my Order." Then he beheld an angel 
who from a fountain pumped streams of crystalline pure- 
ness, chanting ever and anon, "Pax super Israel!" (Peace 
upon Israel! Ps. cxxiv. 5). Father Neale sailed from 
Demerara in January, 1783 ; and after a perilous voyage, 
during which he was captured by English cruisers, reached 
Maryland in April. The proclamation of Peace was issued 
by Washington on the 19th of that month. For history of 
the Convent see "A Story of Courage," George Parsons 
Lathrop and Rose Hawthorne Lathrop, Houghton, Mifflin 
& Co. 

3 "The mitred saints/' Page 57. 

The See of Baltimore was created by Pius VI., in 1789, 
with Right Rev. John Carroll as the first Bishop, his dio- 
cese embracing the whole United States. In 1808 the 
diocese was divided, and Baltimore was raised to the rank 
of a Metropolitan See. Archbishop Carroll died in 1815, 
and was succeeded by his coadjutor, Most Rev. Leonard 
Neale, Founder of the Convent, who yielded to age and 
infirmities on June 18, 1817. His remains were placed in 
the crypt of the Convent Chapel. His successors in the See 
were : Most Rev. Ambrose Marechal, d. 1828 ; Most Rev. 
James Whitfield, d. 1834; Most Rev. Samuel Eccleston, d. 
185 1 ; Most Rev. Francis P. Kenrick, d. 1863 ; Most Rev. 
Martin J. Spalding, d'.i. 1872; Most Rev. James R. Bayley, 
d. 1877 ; His Eminence James Cardinal Gibbons, b. 1834, 
ordained priest, 1861 ; consecrated Bishop, 1868 ; made Arch- 
bishop of Baltimore, 1877 ; created Cardinal, 1886 ; and cele- 
brated the Golden Jubilee of his ordination, with the Silver 
Jubilee of his elevation to the Sacred College of Cardinals, 
June 30, 1911. His Eminence presided over the solemnities 
of the Centenary of Georgetown Convent, May 29, 30, 31, 
1899. 



3 "That army of the Lord." Page 57. 

The Society of Jesus, founded in 1540 by Saint Ignatius 
Loyola, who gave his disciples the motto Ad majorem Dei 
gloriam (To the greater glory of God). Most Rev. Leonard 
Neale made his vows in the Society when quite young. Dur- 
ing the years of its suppression (1773-1814) he was made 
Bishop, then Archbishop. The Fathers of Georgetown Uni- 
versity have always ministered to the spiritual needs of the 
Convent. 

4 "Here comes His Excellency." Page 254. 

This drama was performed in the recreation hall without 
curtain. Probability was waived for a moment, and the 
youthful performers passed reverently from the scene to 
the throne of His Excellency, who welcomed them with 
smiles and gracious words of blessing. 




JUN 4 1913 



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